An African Road Trip

AN AFRICAN ROAD TRIP

By Stevan M Church

 

 

A light-hearted adventure on the dark continent

 

 

 

 

 

All of us learn to write in the second grade. Most of us go on to greater things.                                     Lee Ervin, editor

 

He's a legend in his own mind.

                                                Tom Church, brother

 

There are three rules for writing a book. Unfortunately no one knows what they are.

                                                 Melvin Tool, critic

 

The covers of this book are to far apart.

                                                  Jeff Newman, printer

 

He can compress the most words into the smallest idea of anyone I ever met.

                                                  Chub Church, father

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                

                                      PART II : TANSANIA

 

So near & yet so what?

                            Smilin Mike

 

Experience is what you get when you don't know what your doing.

                                                              African proverb

 

 The time had come, we were now ready, for better or worse, to drive across Africa. After almost a month in Kenya in preparation we considered ourselves pretty darn together. Yessir there wasn't much that could go wrong now.

 We dropped our little buddy Daniel of on the outskirts of Nairobi. He had been invaluable in navigating us through the business of an African introduction, but we didn't need him now. We were ready....we were together.

Ten minutes later we were hopelessly lost.

Having taken the only wrong turn possible & had ended up right back in downtown Nairobi, we now found ourselves mired thick in that cities 'rush hour'. In Africa there is only one rule to obtaining a drivers license...you must....above anything else...be an idiot. You must not know anything about courtesy, momentum, lanes, signs, pedestrians, or brakes. You must know only where the throttle is, & you must be an idiot.

Finally, through no act of our own, the traffic melee spewed us onto the road to Mombasa.

Mombasa is Kenya's main port, meaning all goods imported & exported travel this road, meaning this road is bumper to crucifix with trucks, busses, autos, & ox-carts. Each going its top speed. So what you have here is a no-shoulder strip of

rotted pavement barely 2 lanes wide, with an wide assortment of vehicles, doing a wide range of speeds. It was immediately apparent one would have to be creative to survive. It was also immediately apparent that my partner, my dearest friend, the guy I was to spend the next 4 months in a car with...

was a horrifying driver.

Smilin Mike is a Commercial pilot by trade, & one of the best, I might add. However it is my belief that pilots make frightening drivers because pilots are not used to any sideways limitation. I mean here are guys working with the entire sky, guys that can veer yards, even miles to the left or right & but for the landings, wouldn't even notice.

To add to the excitement that Smilin Mike was able to create, was the fact that in Africa, the steering is on the right & you drive on left, or something like that, thus putting the passenger closest in touch with oncoming traffic.

"JESUSMIKELOOKOUT!!!" I'd scream from the shotgun seat.

"WHAT THE HELLS WRONG WITH YOU??" He'd scream back.

"YOU JUST KNOCKED THE MIRROR OFF THAT BANANA TRUCK...THE ONE GOING THE OTHER WAY AT 80 MPH!!"

"BULLSHIT!!" WE HAD MILES!!"

Driving is a male source of pride. All males think they can drive anything. Male Africans who grew up driving camels, consider themselves the best car drivers in the world after a few minutes....& they are very good, until they kill themselves. But no man, no where likes to be told how to drive. It was most important that we were extremely sensitive towards each others egos, it was most important, [being stuck together for the next 4 months,] that we did nothing to insult or hurt each other's feeling.

"YOU IDIOT!! I'd yell "YOUR GONNA KILL US!"

"DON'T TELL ME HOW TO DRIVE!!"

I was only able to point these flaws out to Mike as I, of course, am an excellent driver.

 

The next afternoon we rolled into Kenya's massive Tsavo Park. Almost 200 miles across, it is as large as some states & as wild as the beginning of time. In fact Dr. Leaky himself digging in Tsavo found human skeletons almost 3 million years old. It is truly the cradle of civilization, reflecting an agelessness in its crumbling mountains, vast valleys, & prehistoric looking beasts. If you ever would expect to see a dinosaur it would be in Tsavo park.

 Kenya's Park service has beautiful detailed maps of its parks, however no one had one, nor had anyone ever seen one. Consequently somewhere in Tsavo Park, somewhere on its 1000 miles of dirt roads, we were again lost. We had driven for hours & hours through desert valleys right out of Planet of the Apes, creeping up bluffs on cliff hanging roads, Mike trying hard to curb his tongue about my 'excellent' driving. As far as you could see, & you could see 100 miles, there was nobody. Not another person. It was as if we'd entered some lost world, lost in time.

Then came the fork in the road...

I had always been told by my father that 'when you come to a fork in the road, take it.'

I am still trying to figure out what that meant...

So, the sun is setting, we must camp, we're tired, we're hot, we're out of beer.

"I think we ought to go left." I said

"I think we ought to go right." Mike said.

 "Figures." I muttered.

A fork in the road in Africa is no light matter. A wrong turn might change your life...hell, a right turn might change your life. A dead end road may be just that in this desert. This was not a matter left to chance, this would have to be well considered in the most intellectual manner.

We would have to step out, & beat the shit out of each other.

Now Mike is a big guy, a healthy guy, I on the other hand border on the 'run down' side. I was not looking forward to being pummeled that afternoon, but there seemed to be no other way of determining which way to go.

We squared of in the middle of the road. It was ankle deep dust & hot as hell.....what did I care?...I'd soon be dead....dust to dust.

Mike raised his fists...they looked like two pork roasts, I closed my eyes...

"Now what are you lads up to?" a voice said.

We both leapt in the air spinning to face a rugged looking older white man. He wore sweaty khakis & a pith helmet. Right 'Out Of Africa.'

"Just having a friendly chat sir." Mike said "What in the world are you doing out here?"

"Well I was in the middle of sketching a Lappet-faced Vulture, when you to boys came hollering down the road....seems you to idiots have scared most of the animals out of Tsavo...I myself have heard you for 2 days."

"How'd you get out here?" Mike asked.

"I've got a Rover over the hill, I rent a small house here in the park."

"Well mabey you could suggest a good camping site?" We asked.

"Go right, you'll get to a small stream, nice big trees, & pop by my place for coffee in the morning, I'm just down the road from there.....& keep the noise down!" He spun on his heel & disappeared.

Mike had been right again, but I took it like a man & only pouted for an hour or so.

We came to the stream, then the trees. A perfect campsite, & soon the coffee boiled away, the solar shower was hung from a limb, & the camp chairs set about a crackling fire, as we watched the firey African sun sink to the horizon. After being cooped in the car for the last couple days a long walk was suggested & taken before dinner. We strolled for an hour down the banks of the tiny stream flushing wart hogs & Impala before us. It was nearly dark when Mike turned back.

"Race ya!" he said & took off.

I felt as old as time jogging down the dusty African track that evening...as if I'd been there before...as if I'd never left. There is a strange feeling about Africa...it is like coming home....even if you've never been there before,

It was a clear African evening under the Southern Cross, as peaceful as sleep.

We broke camp early next morning & headed to the old gentleman's house to thank him for the teeth saving information.

We found the house, a small adobe structure, in the center of a vast plain. A herd of cape buffalo grazed in the front 'yard.' The white-haired gentleman sat on his front porch sketching the beasts. He welcomed us in.

He introduced himself as Robert Glenn, a sculptor. Mr. Glenn has done work worldwide & is quite famous in bronze work. He spends 4 months a year in Africa, studying the animal form.

We sipped his coffee & thanked him for the campsite information.

"Yep, that's a good spot allright....except for the lions."

Mike & I looked at each other "Lions?"

"There's a large pride of lions living in the cover of the streambed." He went on, "but you would have been all right in a camp, you just don't want to walk around down there."

Mike & I stared at each other. "Just how should one act if encountering a lion on foot?" we asked Mr. Glenn.

"Never run in lion country, that's the main thing...never run!"

 

We took our leave of Mr. Glenn, leaving him to his pad, in the center of that African expanse of mother nature.

 Bumping & rattling over Tsavos dirt tracks, stopping to admire an elephant herd here, a zebra herd there. Gazelle & impala stared warily, as giant Eland & Kudu, crashed into the brush.                                                                     It was early afternoon....when the gas tank fell off.

"Whatsthatnoise?" speaking at once.

"Whatsthatsmell?"' we said, then "GAS!!"

Mike slammed to a stop, we leapt out. The spare gas tank had fallen out & was now dragging along spewing gas everywhere. It had pulled the hose from the main tank which was also pouring onto the ground. I slithered under the Trooper, & plugged the main tanks drain with my finger. The two tanks had drained together, gravity flow system, with no shut-off, consequently when the rear tank fell of it pulled the drain line from the main tank. There was no way to plug either one, as the rear tank had broken its welds & could not be reattached to the car. I would either have to lie under there for the rest of my life, or we would need a plug.

Mike seized the opportunity. He located a stick the right diameter & whittled a plug. It fit perfectly.

Although the Trooper carried another 15 gal of spare gas, we had lost most of our main supply in the sand. It was at least 150 miles back to the parks gate & the only town, a fly spot called Mtito Andei. The Trooper in low gear grinding through 6 inch deep sand was getting miserable mileage to boot.

The frightening thing was our surroundings though. This place would make Nevada look like a botanical garden. Miles of burning sand, spotted with cactus & strange thorny bushes. Not a spot of shade, or water, or traffic, & crawling with snakes & lions. Couldn't walk out during the day...to hot. Couldn't walk at night....you'd be eaten.

 Creeping along in silence, the horrible realization of an actual break down out here going through our heads when....CRASH!! The Trooper stopped dead, the engine stone quiet. We looked at each other, nothing but the sound of our beating hearts in that stifling heat.

"Uh Oh!" I squeaked.

 Stepping out onto the burning sand, & stumbled in the deserts intense glare.

The hood, too hot to touch, was gingerly opened like a waffle iron.

"Oh boy...."

The battery mount had broken its welds on this teeth chattering corrugation. Battery & all had dropped like a prom dress through the engine compartment, taking the radiator fan cover with it. The whole mess lay under the engine, in a tangle of hoses & wires.

 It wasn't till early next morning we had completed the jury rigged repair. Being to hot to work under the afternoon sun most of the wiring had been redone in the dark. The radio now came on with the turn signal.

The battery swung from bailing wire, & the one remaining gas tank had a stick plug in it. It seemed a prudent time to head to town for repairs.

 'Town' is a complement to Mtito Andei, more of a scalding, dead dog of a truck stop kinda place, about a dozen cement bars lined the highway, its own small getto sprawling behind. We were directed to the center of this warren to find the welder.

A dozen overall-clad Africans lay in the shade of a tin roof. About them sprawled car parts, scrawny dogs & naked kids.

"Jambo Sana!!" Mike demonstrated our Swahili  then went on in English about the battery falling out, the gas tank falling off.

The men stared at us, it was as if we had dropped from heaven. Two rich, fat white guys. A truck loaded down like Wal-Mart & the whole mess had landed right in their laps.....there was a God.

A couple guys started shouting orders, other guys scrambled under the Trooper & relayed information to the fabricating crew now going through the scrape pile for usable parts. They seemed to know exactly what to do, gas tanks must fall off all the time in Mtito Andei..

Finally 4 metal straps had been fitted to the spare tank, now the entire mess had to be welded to the Trooper.

"Mike....you don't spose their gonna weld that tank back on half full of gas!!"

"I believe they are!!"

"HOLD IT!! THAT IS A GAS TANK!!! YOU CANT WELD IT!!!! IT WILL EXPLODE!!

In America if a gas tank needs welding, it is drained of gas & filled with water to avoid a disaster. But this wasn't America.

We stopped the operation, long enough to retrieve our passports, the money & our cameras from the Trooper, then retreated 3 blocks away. When those tanks blew it was gonna level a good 2 blocks of his shabby neighborhood.

Three ragged men crawled under the truck, two would hold the tank in place, another would weld it up. A small crowd gathered around lying on their bellies offering hints & help to the crew under the truck. No one, including the welder himself had eye protection...

"Its gonna take half the population of Mtito Andei with it"...muttered Mike.

It didn't blow, & after another hour the Trooper stood ready, practically entirely new. It came time for the bill. The boss squirmed under the pressure, a silence fell on the crowd. Whatever we were about to pay would be about 10 times the local rate. The boss couldn't risk his fellows exploding in disbelief when he named his price, he led us from the crowd, gently holding our arms as a doctor might, delivering bad news.

"20.oo" he said, a burst of air escaped a small child standing nearby, he ran to tell the others.

"20.oo?", this would have been 500.oo in the states, "You got it!"

"The boss exhaled in relief...he had pulled it off.

"That afternoon we again entered Tsavo National Park this time prowling south in rocky canyons & cactus dotted valleys. It was late in the afternoon when we came upon a small sign lying flat in the sand. It read, in hand painted letters, inches high, Ngulia Safari Lodge, & a small arrow pointed up a cactus covered cliff.

"I like that, Ngulia Safari Lodge, lets check it out." said Mike jamming into 4wd & creeping up the rocky track. Soon this cliff-clinging road came to a tiny plateau, kind of a flat little Shangra La of meadows, woodlands & water holes. Perched on rocky bluffs above the water holes 4 amazing bungaloos built from the same rock, seemed to blend into the mountain. The whole scene looked out over a valley of grasslands stretching 50 miles south. Giant crumbling cliffs bordered the valleys floor trapping huge herds of buffalo, wildebeest, & elephant, wandering slowly through shimmering heat waves....

"COOL PLACE!!"

Driving into a dusty parking lot above the bungalows, the place seemed to be deserted. Not a car, no sign of life...we stepped from the Trooper and stood admiring the foresight of an architect to build these places like mother nature herself had formed the tiny houses. Built out of stone, thatched roofs, huge terraces looking over the garden of Eden...

"Doesn't seem to be any one around...." I was saying when into the golden light of the African setting sun stepped the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was 6 foot tall, willow thin, black as night, & moving like a panther

across the dusty lot. Her bare feet ,sparkling with ankle bracelets, kicked up tiny puffs of dust as she floated like a ghost towards us. Mike & I stood like crash test dummies starring at a vision. She glided to a stop, 2 feet from our frozen corpses. Necklace's of ivory, & gleaming white teeth stood out against her deep chocolate skin, her head was wrapped in an elegant red turbine. She was the most beautiful girl?...woman? I had ever seen.

She opened her mouth to speak, her eyes danced...

"Have you any music?" she asked.

"PPPHHHEEBB!" Mike said.

JJJEEEERRRRBB!! I agreed.

 We both dove for the front seat cracking heads in the surge. Mike shouldered me & gained the tape deck, I returned to the girl, introduced myself & inquired of her name.

"You would not be able to say my name, so call me Rose." She smiled.

Suddenly Tina Turner blasted from the Trooper, & 'Rose' leapt into the air like a scalded cat. She came down twisting & gyrating a rubbery frame, springing & spinning about the dusty lot...

"HOLY SHEITE!!" I yelled unable to resist her wild inhibitions, I in turn leapt into the dusty fray & started jerking about like an epelectic ape.

"RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!" Mike bellowed & vaulted into the wild dance. For the next 20 minutes we hooted & pranced, leaping & moonwalking into the African sunset. A fine red dust coated our sweating bodies turning the dancers into primal beings in some ancient frenzy. Finally with the end of the tape we collapsed into the dirt, laughing & wheezing.

"I am sorry!" Rose gasped,  "I don't get much music out here...who was

 that?"

"Tina Turner, Rose, you live here by yourself?" I asked

"Yes, I am the caretaker here, I manage the place, & once a month they bring me food & my mail."

"You don't get lonely out here?"

"No, it is beautiful here...I enjoy it very much...now, if you care to rent a bungalow it is 6.oo per night & that is final!"

She showed us to a tiny stone house away from the rest, built on a cliff, the terrace dangled 100 feet above a murky water hole.

Rose beat on the heavy wooden door with a broom handle then swung the door open & leapt aside.

We stared at her.

"Leopards, sometimes they get into the houses through the roof, I have been knocked over by them escaping." She said matter of factly.

"If called by a panther, don't anther, "I told her.

Inquiring about dinner, we were informed by Rose that the Ngulia Safari Lodge, about 5 miles down the road served dinner, however it was not advisable to drive back after dark, therefore she suggested we get an armed gaurd from the Lodge to acompany us back.

"Armed gaurd? What in the world is out there?"

"Lions, elephants..."

"We spit on lions & elephants!"

"Poachers, Rangers looking for poachers..."

"We spit on Rangers & poachers..."

"As you wish."smiled Rose

Mike & I begged & pleaded with Rose to join us, but she refused, opting to stay with her resonsibility. We showered & headed to the Lodge.

 "I really like that girl." Was said a couple dozen times on the drive.

Ngulia Lodge, a magnificent stone structure perched high on a rocky bluff commanding a view of most of east Africa. As an assortment of international customers dined on Kudu & Crocodile, we watched Zebra & Giraffe at a well lit water hole. It was a lavish evening in the heart of the African bush & Mike & I were feeling no pain indeed when again we ventured to the Trooper & headed toward home.

 Bouncing down a pitch black dusty track, trying to keep a semblence of paint from the thick thorn bushes lining the road, I suddenly jerked alert.

"Stop the car, Mike!!! Theres something in the bushes."...stupid really..

Mike slammed on the brakes, I rolled down the window & leaned out into the cool blackness....

Suddenly an explosion of a roar, not 5 feet from my stunned face stopped my heart & litterly blew my hair straight back! We had stopped right along side a dozen hidden lions, & I had rolled down my window & proceeded to stick my head right into the gaping black jaws of the King of beasts.

"AAAAIIIEE!!" I franticly cranked the window...Mike popped the clutch, & killed the Trooper.

African Lions have no enemy but man, they can reach 12 feet in lenght, & can weigh over 600 lbs. A male lion can mate for 70 hours on & off...hence the name, THE KING OF BEASTS. They sleep for 18 hours a day, & hunt at night, their amber eyes reflecting an evil light. Their roar is, according to Webster: Extraordinarily loud. It so happens that Tsavo Park is the home of Africas most famous man eaters, two lions that carried of dozens of road workers before being shot. The Maneaters of Tsavo, they were called for want of a better name.

Mike ground on the starter, the lights dimmed...

"TURN OF THE LIGHTS!!" My heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

The Trooper turned slowly over in the pitch blackness, finally sputtering to

life. Mike flipped on the lights...

"AAAEEEIII!!" We screamed.

Directly in front of the windshield a mature male, its huge mane bristeling stood with one paw on the bumper & one on the hood. The headlights lit his ferocious face from under his chin, giving the beast an even more evil look. The massive face was 2 feet from the front window.

"AAAEEEIII!!  Now at my side window a scar'd lioness pressed a pancake sized paw against the glass. The window bowed in from her weight.

An unsettling rumbling & growling was going all around the shaking car.

The stench of rotted meat on foul breath covered us like a hot blanket.

" MIKE!! WE GOTTAGETOUTOFHERE!!!"  There were perhaps a half dozen lions now pressed about the car, stareing in the windows at their dinner like

housecats drooling over caged canaries.

Suddenly the huge male lept onto our hood, the metal bending, the car diving under his weight...

"NOW!" Screamed Mike & again popped the clutch. This time the Trooper lurched forward forcing the giant cat to leap for the brush. We were free, born free, & went carrening into the night, howling with adrenilin.

"STAREING INTO THE FACE OF DEATH!!"

"THE EYE OF THE TIGER!!"

It felt very good indeed, the outcome of this little encounter did,

Finally reaching the parking lot of the Safarii Camp, we shut off the Trooper & stepped into the night still laughing from the excitement of the lions. Mike locked the doors & started for the bungalow....

"CRASH SNORT ROAR!!" The bushes again erupted not five feet from us...

"BACK IN THE CAR!! I howled, as Mike fummbled with the keys I screamed words of encouragement..

"HURRY HURRY!! HERE IT COMES!!, not quite sure what 'it' was, there was no doubt at all 'it' was very big. Entire trees were being snapped in half 5 feet from our faces.

Again we dove into the safety of the car, howling with fear & relief.

"Good God Man, this is a wild part of the world!" Mike understated.

 Huddled in the Trooper the nearby dark brush thrashed & shook with huge bodies. Suddenly a silent figure appeared at the side window.

It was the lovely Rose, wrapped in a red sarong, & gripping a nasty looking AK47, the girl was a picture of cool.

She tapped on the window & motioned us to follow her. We got as close to Rose as clothing would permit, & she led away toward our cabin. The screaming & snorting went on all around.

"What the hell is going on, Rose"? I whispered.

"Elephants....but you guys, 'spit on elephants.'

She reached the front door of the bungalow, & beat on it with the butt of the machine gun. It swung open & the three of us leaped aside.

"Leopards!!"

She glided inside, lit a lamp & poked about with the gun.

"OK Boys, sleep tight!" She smiled & slipped into the crashing, howling, blackness.

Mike & I looked at each other.  "I really like that girl!"

It couldn't be called 'restful', that night in the stone bungalow. Nothing like a hysterical herd of elephants outside your door to keep you on edge. These six ton beasts were carrying on like 3 year olds at a birthday party. Great snorts & bellowing shattered the night as the creatures rolled & splashed in the water hole below our deck. Trees & bushes were being uprooted & crushed not 3 feet from our hut. The din was tremendous, literally shaking the house with their bellows. Mikes tiny flashlight would pick up shapes like gray ships passing in the night, but we could only speculate as to the size of the herd. No one sleeps in a herd of elephants.

After 3 days at the Ngulia Safari Camp, we were both hopelessly in love with Rose, lavishing her with gifts, trying to out do each other. I'd give her a calculator, Mike gave her a watch. I'd give her my cloths, Mike gave her our food. Finally agreeing, we would team up...& put her through college. For a year after that Smiling Mike & I sent Rose money for school. I received a letter from Rose soon after, her father had been squashed by an elephant while working in his garden, Rose would have to quit school to feed the family. Such is life in Africa.....but my, that Rose was a beautiful girl.

After 3 days at the Safari Camp we were also sleepless. The elephants returning nightly for more rollicking bedlam. No wonder no one stayed here.

We left the place one crisp clear morning, hugging Rose & leaving her to the camp on the cliff, & her elephants, alone in the African desert.

Our map showed a road leading from Tsavo to Amboseli Park across southern Kenya. Mike was driving, I was navigating....

"What condition is the road? He asked, "Dirt, pavement?"

"It says here it's Barabara za Changarawe."

"Our only map is in Swahili?" asked Mike.

"Apparently so."

About 10:oo that morning we arrived at Tsavos west gate, an imposing stone & metal guard house & barracks. A smiling guard refused to let us pass.

"You must wait for the convoy, dis road bery, bery dangerous." he said. "You cannot travel alone."

"Well when does the "convoy" leave?"

"Well mabey der one at 3:oo today, de leave late & drive like hell!"

I had seen African drivers on these roads, they did indeed 'drive like hell'.

"What if we didn't want to leave late, what if we didn't want to 'drive like hell?" I inquired.

""Well in dat case you must hire a guard to accompany you!"

"Where?"

"Here."

"How much?"

"20.oo"

"OK!"

He streaked off to the barracks, returning moments later with a grim faced soldier packing a small bag & a huge AK47.

"Dis is Wellington." the guard introduced us.

Wellington neither smiled nor acknowledge us, but walked to the Trooper got into the shotgun seat & waited silently. Mike & I thanked the guard, climbed in around the stiff soldier, & went bouncing off down the dirt track.

"Hey Wellington, why do travlers need a guard, what's out here anyway?"

He looked annoyed as if everyone knew what was out there, everyone but us. "Masai."

 Masai, the tall elegant tribe of lion killers that drinks cows blood, wears long red flowing robes, & packs 7 foot spears.

"The Masai don't want people driving this road?" Mike asked.

" Their land." Wellington certainly didn't waste words.

"Have they really attacked travelers?" Come on, this was 1993.

" Killed 2 Americans last month." He was starting to ramble.

"Oh."

This was great, how far away the sterility of driving in the states seemed. Why, here was a road that came with an armed guard, because blood swilling natives were spearing tourists. This really was making for an interesting road trip...an excellent adventure.

"Hey Wellington, you ever killed anyone with that thing?" Mike asked, after all, Wellington for all his machismo was still only about 21.

"Yes." said Wellington.

"How many?" I asked.

He looked at me with cold reptilian eyes. "Many." He said.

The 'road' had disappeared all together in a massive lava field. The Trooper crawled over petrified waves of baking, black rock as Wellington said nothing & pointed the way. He sat straight backed in the front seat, gun cradled in his arms, pointed out the open window. His eyes searched the horizon as if any moment we would be attacked by screaming savages.

 It was about 100 degrees already & nerve wracking, crawling over these tire shredding rocks....I needed a drink.

I mixed Mike a hot Kenyan rum & stale orange juice & offered Wellington one. He declined, siting duty. I poured myself a tall one, & sat back in the jostling seat. Moments later Wellington reconsidered his position on the rum & decided to join us.

45 minutes later the rum was gone.

"I SEE YOU HAVE VODKA!! I LOVE VODKA!!" Wellington was screaming. He was bobbing & weaving to Jimmy Cliff, the AK47 now between his legs pointed up at his stomach.

An hour & a half later the vodka was gone. We all were bobbing about the interior like dashboard dogs, rocking to Meat Loafs 'Love by the Dashboard Lights, & singing at the top of our lungs.

"I DON'T SEE NO BAD MASAI!!" We sang. WANT TO SEE MASAI BYE BYE!!"

We were fearless men, when an actual Masai village of round mud huts appeared a mile off the road.

"LETS GO MEET THE MASAI!" Yelled Mike & swung the Trooper toward the village.

"I don't know Mike"... I wasn't that fearless....

"WE GOT WELLINGTON TO PROTECT US!"

I looked at our guard, his eyes were crossed, it was just a mater of time before he shot himself.

"Let me do the talkin." Wellington slurred.

The Trooper bounced to a dusty stop near the collection of round mud huts. A corral of thorn bushes held an wild assortment of long-horned cattle nearby. As we stepped from the truck a wilder looking assortment of men approached. The main group stayed 20 yards away, spears gripped firmly. What appeared to be the chief & two warriors came nearer. He had a bowler hat perched on his head, & a gold watch...dangling from his earlobe.

"Wonder where he got that?" I whispered to Mike.

Wellington was negotiating with the chief for us to take a few photos of the village. Finally he turned to us...

"100.oo." he said.

"Oh good work, Wellington."  We turned to go, feigning dis-interest. More negotiation, 50.oo seemed a better price. The chief seemed truly agitated when Mike offered 10.oo take it or leave it.

Again we started to go.

He snapped his acceptance, & waved at the line of somber warriors to let us through. I didn't like this, even slightly intoxicated I could recognize an element of danger. Entering the dusty village a dozen warriors closed behind.

 The chief barked an order whereupon about 40 women lined solemnly up for the photo session. It does something to a persons pride to be photographed like a animal. I was feeling very uncomfortable snapping pictures of these proud, glaring people. Suddenly the Chief approached & started waving his spear in Mikes face, jabbering intensely.

"What does he want?" Croaked the wary pilot.

"He wants to sell you his spear." said Wellington.

"I don't want his spear." Smiled Mike

"He says you do." said Wellington.

A gnarled old woman approached me, she stared up at me for a moment then pulled down her sarong & pointed to a huge tumor growing from her stomach.

"AAARRRGGG!!, Wellington, why's she showing me this!"

"I told her you were a doctor."

I had shown Wellington his first condom earlier that day, explaining everything in the shaving kit to him...he now considered me 'The Doctor."

Women were coming from every direction, holding up runny eyed, fly covered children. Shoving cases of leprosy, elephantites, polio under my nose. "DOCTOR!" they chanted.

I backed toward the Trooper & retrieved the first aid kit... A big mistake...

Masai women gathered round, their shaved heads like a bobbing crowd

of bowling balls. They were pushing & clawing to get at me. Flies covered our faces, the stench of cattle dung fires hung heavy in the afternoon heat. I was being pressed against the Trooper in a sea of sweating odiferous bodies. The Masai, living in the desert & all would never use water in such a wasteful manner as bathing.

"DOCTOR!!" They screamed, clawing each other to get at me.

"Oh boy lady that's a nasty little lion bite you got there." Referring to a festering wound three inches deep, "Better put a band aid on it."

"Malaria?? Here's 2 aspirin, call me in the morning. Eye cancer? Here's some antibiotic cream, leprosy? Here's some antibiotic cream! Aids? Here's some"...

This was getting out of hand, I was getting clawed & grabbed as I searched for Mike & Wellington. A group of about 50, tall, lean, red robed warriors leapt about in a tight knot. With horror I realized Mike & Wellington were in the center of this frenzy. The men were shaking spears over their heads & yelling, all apparently trying to sell Smiling Mike their weapons, but the sales pressure was getting out of hand.

 Suddenly from the center of this crowd a muscular black arm & the stubby AK47 were thrust skyward. A deafening burst of fire, & the Masai dove for the ground. It was apparently not the first time the Masai had been shot at.

Women, children, & men lay flat & motionless around us.

START THE TRUCK! Wellington & Mike were yelling as they raced toward me.

I leapt for the front seat & cranked the engine, Mike & the guard diving into the rear seat just as the Trooper fired to life. The Masai were on their feet now, running toward the car, screaming like banshees. I popped the clutch & a sea of red clad humanity parted. They beat on the windows, attempted to leap on the hood & raced along side as I tore across the desert. Finally the Trooper got up to speed in the soft sand & we pulled away from the sprinting mob.

"AAAIIIEEE!! Mike & I were screaming, the adrenaline again pumping madly. There is something about being attacked by humans, that seems so much more barbaric than being attacked by animals.

"MASAI !!  Screamed Wellington, "ANY MORE VODKA??"

And so our first encounter with the Red-Robed elegant & fierce Masai.

  The Masai migrated south from Ethiopia some 600 years ago. They at one time were considered the greatest warriors in Eastern Africa, but their numbers have been greatly reduced by white men's diseases until only about 50, 000 remain. The Masai have refused to give up their ancient tribal customs & to this day practice rituals that we may find a bit odd.

When a baby is born to the tribe its baptism will consist of the entire tribe passing buy & spitting upon the infant. And life dosnt get any easier for the child. At age 6 his front teeth will be knocked out with a chisel. This is supposedly to allow evil spirits to escape the body as one sleeps, but also serves a dual purpose. The Masai literally live with their cattle, hence the people are continuously affected by tetanus, & lockjaw. With their two front teeth gone a reed can be passed into the victims mouth, thus feeding them, even though the jaw may be locked tight.

At age 8 circles are carved into their cheeks to identify the tribe. Ear lobes are cut in huge loops. Noses pierced, lips pierced.

At puberty the boys will be rounded up & circumcised, without anesthetic or antibiotic, & without flinching. At this time if the witch doctor deems the lad unsuitable to be a Masai warrior he may poison the circumcision blade.

As if the poor boys hadn't suffered enough, they are then thrown out of the village to fend for themselves for the next 4 to 6 years. They must build a new village & feed themselves, they can have no contact with the opposite sex. It was during this time a Masai boy had to prove himself a man by killing a lion using only his spear. The practice was recently abolished by the Kenyan government citing a lack of lions....much to the relief of the young Masai , no doubt.

At about age 20 the young man returns to the tribe & picks his wife, usually not a day over 13. The Masai are a handsome people with high cheek bones,  thin lips, & oval intelligent eyes. The men sport braids, the women shave their heads, both wear copious amounts of beaded jewelry.

Their diet consists of meat, milk, & cows blood which they draw from the beasts neck with a small sharp reed.

The Masai are a hardy, elegant people moving silently with long smooth strides, their red robes flying on the wind, across the bleak East African deserts.

The 'road' had turned to dust. Dust fine as talcum & 3 feet deep. Dust up to the front bumpers & beyond. Dust that permeated every tiny opening of the Trooper & now threatened to choke the life from its inhabitants. Dust lay thick on the windshield, resulting in wiper use or blindness, & coated the other windows making visibility impossible. The only indication we were moving, was the speedometer, reading about 5mph & the gentle swaying of the truck. We were literally being buried alive, bouncing along in our Japanese coffin. It was well past sunset when we finally shuddered into Amboseli Park.

 The Amboseli Lodge was in the process of serving its Gucci guests their nightly African buffet....a repast we now sought to indulge in.

 Wellington refused to leave his precious AK47 in the Trooper & from the glazed look in his red glowing eyes we decided to let the boy have his way.

A tuxedoed waiter met us at the front door.

"A table for three." Mike informed him.

He stared at us as if a car load of zombies had just walked in. With good reason I imagine. The three of us were coated with dust, our eyes red rimmed, stared from mud caked unshaven faces. Our filthy khakis stained in rum & gasoline, our hair like brillo sticking skyward. Both Mike & I had huge knives & water bottles strapped to our sides, pen lights & compasses hung from our necks. Wellington weaved in his army boots, the ugly machine gun gripped firmly in his filthy hands. We smelled like dumpster winos.

 The waiter was staring at the machine gun...

"Right this way...gentleman." He finally decided. As we entered the elegant dinning room, the place went stone quiet.

You could have heard a crouton hit the floor as the three of us staggered through the gold-chained crowd. With each step a small cloud of dust rose from our feet.

The stench of sour sweat & cheap rum surrounded us like a funky cloud.

"How much for your daughter?" Mike growled at a Gucci clad French family.

"Done with this?" Wellington grabbed a Heineken from another horrified group. He tipped it skyward, drained it, replaced the bottle & belched.

"Beers." I ordered from a nervous waiter, who raced for the kitchen.

If your looking for prompt professional service anywhere in the world, I don't believe you can beat taking a machine gun to dinner with you.

Patrons scattered from that room like rats from a burning boat, leaving the entire staff at our disposal. And we did indeed put them to good use. Ah Africa, one minute your a Masai entrée' the next your dinning on braised gazelle in a 5 star lodge.

The Amboseli Lodge charges about 200.oo per night for a room, we had no intention of paying it. Camping in the parking lot would suffice. The security guard appeared & informed us camping in the parking lot would not suffice. Wellington, being a guard could sleep in the guards quarters, Mike & I could not.

More guards appeared, heated discussion went on for an hour as to where Mike & I could sleep. Finally the head warden himself, refusing to let us sleep in our car, where beds were all made up, agreed to 'allow' us the cement floor of his office...for a small fee. Finally about 3:oo in the morning Mike & I collapsed in the crude office. At 5:oo we were awakened by the same warden & ejected. Welcome to Amboseli.     

Amboseli Park, in the shadow of snow capped MT Kilimanjaro was once one of Africas most beautiful parks. The 19,565 foot peak, shrouded in clouds, makes a postcard backdrop, for Amboselis lush plains. Herds of elephant graze along meandering rivers in what once was Eden,(indeed the Masai call Kilimanjaro, 'the house of God)' But there lies the problem. ...the elephants. With the protection of elephant in the park their numbers swelled. Over population & over grazing left Ambosli a desert, the grotesque twisted  

trunks of forests stripped of bark & limb. The elephants were finally culled much to international uproar, & Amboseli park is regenerating.

We were in Amboseli in the middle of a 4 year drought so the place was unusually dry & dusty. Sunsets lit Kilimanjaro blood red from the dust of huge herds of wandering beasts.

Setting up residence in Amboseli campground, a dusty patch of Acacia trees surrounded with a 12 high electric fence to detour the elephants from squashing campers, we spent 3 days exploring the parks perimeters, usually ending up at the lavish Serena Lodge for a poached swim in the pool. It was after one of these evenings at the Lodge we were puttering blindly back to camp in a howling sandstorm, when the temperature gauge shot to the red. Smilin Mike & I had a policy, switching driving every other day & with that responsibility came the preflight check. The driver that day would be responsible for checking all fluids, bolts, wires or anything else that may have rattled loose in the last days travels. I had checked the fluids alright, then had left the radiator cap off resulting in the entire loss of our coolant system as I motored along. The cap luckily, was still sitting on the battery, & water we carried on the roof, so after waiting an hour in buffeting wind & sand, waiting for the engine to cool, we were on our way again.

 It had been a good lesson in awareness. The slightest oversight in this country could result disaster. Although Mike tried hard to control his opinion it was obvious my casual attitude greatly peeved him.

We came upon a lion one day in Amboseli. He sat on his haunches by a dusty track starring into space & yawning. Mike pulled along side the aging king of beasts & stopped not 8 feet away. By the look of his distended stomach he had recently eaten, & had little interest in us. We stared at each other, both yawning in the afternoon heat. A lion yawning from 8 feet away is a formidable sight with no fence between you & he.

Finally having bothered the lordly cat enough Mike started the Trooper & drove away...about two feet. The truck sputtered & died...out of gas.

Now there was plenty of gas on the roof, chained down in Jerry cans, someone would only have to get out, climb up there, climb down & pour it in the tank....10 feet away from a 600 lb lion.

"I'll cover you with the mace." said Mike.

"Well that certainly makes me feel better." As if a lipstick canister of mace would deter a charging lion.

After a half an hour it was apparent the lion had no intention of moving, someone would have to get the gas. I slithered from the drivers side window up onto the roof. Mike crept to the Trooper's gas tank.

"Pass the gas." He whispered.

"Oh I will." I whispered back & ever so slowly under the amber gaze of that lion handed Mike a 5 gal can. The operation seemed to take hours, & it was with great relief I again slid into the front seat.

Another evening, returning to camp, we found our way blocked by a most stubborn cape buffalo. The one ton beast had parked its fly covered bulk in the center of a small bridge & by God nobody was getting through. When advanceing  the Trooper the huge beast lowered its head, pawed the ground & bellowed a well understood threat. The Cape buffalo is considered one of the most dangerous animals in Africa. He will charge anything including cars & even trains. They are endowed with both bad eyesight, a bad temper, & 2000 lbs to back it up. It was a stand-off...we were buffaloed.

Finally, long after dark the obstinate bovine gave up the blockade & abandoned his post, wandering off into the night, content with his disruption.

 It was time to depart Kenya, time to try our forged papers at the border, it was time to drive across Africa. 

Driving into Namanga at noon, a flyblown border town between Kenya & Tanzania, I pulled up to the crossing.

"Before you can enter Tanzania you must obtain the necessary papers."

"You must leave the car in Kenya walk into Tanzania & return with papers, that way you can drive into Tanzania with the papers."

Mike & I had learned not to question the African system & parked the Trooper on a side street. As we gathered our passports & paperwork an ancient Masai stood silently alongside me his runny eyes staring at mine, his hand out stretched.

"No." I snapped at him, rummaging for papers, I was worried, this was the big one, if we couldn't get through this border we wouldn't get through any of them.

Walking the 100 yards into Tanzania to a cement customs building we entered a stifling office. A bored agent stared at our papers.

"You must go to immigration first." He said & pointed outside.

We left & entered a another door.

A bored agent stared at our papers.

"Did you clear out of Kenya?"

"Not yet." Mike said.

"Then you must go back to Kenya."

 Back to Kenya, cleared out, & returned, this time passed from immigration to customs to finally the head agent herself, a mountain of a woman behind a serious face.

"Passports, visas, international vaccination certificate, car title, car visa, money declaration form ,& Carne'." She snapped.

"Here goes", I thought, handing over the forged documents.

The woman studied those papers for ten minutes, her sausage of a finger going down each one with the scrutiny of a brain surgeon.

Finally she leaned back stared at us for what seemed a lifetime & said:

"All is in order here."

"It is??" 

"Welcome to Tanzania." She smiled, produced a rubber stamp & proceeded to smash it down on assorted pages. We were then ushered to immigration where more rubber stamps were smashed, then customs for the same treatment.

Returning for the Trooper, the same withered Masai stood with his hand out.

"OK MY MAN!!" I smiled, & retrieved every lose coin in that truck. I took out my wallet. Kenya's money was no good over the border & I was feeling good. Into that trembling mans hands went about 30.oo in bills & change. He fell to his knees,"JAMBO SANA" ASANTE SANA!!" "ASANTE!!"

"Yes sir, it is a fine day" I had just given him a half years salary, & pretty much assured him a life of begging at the border.

A days drive from the border the road rose from a dust bowl desert to the lush foothills of Mt Meru. The town of Arusha, nestled in coffee plantations & jungle, was a most pleasant surprise of tree lined streets & a almost Cosmopolitan...well not really that Cosmopolitan... flair.

Having heard there was a thriving black market in Tanzania, & Mike wanted to find out just how thriving. He pulled into the first gas station.

"How many Tanzanian dollars for U.S. dollars? He asked the attendants, (there were about 10 of them) They ran off & consulted another 10 guys in the office. All twenty now returned.

"175 Tanzanian for one U.S." Ventured Mr. Big.

"No thanks." Mike pulled out of the station.

"Gee I dunno Mike sounded pretty good to me...." I ventured.

Mike pulled into the second station....

"How many Tanzanian dollars for one U.S.?" He asked. Again heavy consultation, they wanted to give as little as possible, but they certainly didn't want to lose the business either. You see, there just aren't that many cars in Tanzania.

"250.oo to one U.S." finally one of them ventured, the rest held their breath.

"No thanks." Mike drove away, to a chorus of anguished attendant cries.

"Gee I dunno Mike, sounded pretty good." I offered.

He pulled into a third station. Same question, same thoughtful consideration. Finally the answer. "350 to one."

"OK Man fill it up." said Mike.

"Sounds good to me." I offered.

On the outskirts of Arusha there appeared a small hand painted sign, pointing into the jungle. Lake Dilute Camping it said. Mike turned down the dirt track.

Lake Dilluti turned out to be the most beautiful place in the world. Simply.

In the shadow of snow capped Kilimanjaro & Mt Meru the mile square lake sat tucked in an ancient crater. To the walls of this crater clung a riot of flowering trees & vegetation. The water itself was coated with purple & red floating flowers having drifted down from Flamboyant & Frangipani Trees.

Along the shores millions of Golden Weavers chattered & sang as they spun grasses into nests. The nests, tidy round structures hung like Christmas balls from swaying yellow reeds. The late afternoon sun gave the whole place an unearthly soft glow.

Mike pulled into the campground, about 5 acres with a huge 16 foot high fence about it. An ancient local swung a huge gate open & pointed to a small structure on the lake. It appeared we were the only ones there.

 Parking next to the lake Mike & I entered the shack. A good sized deck was built into waving reeds. Millions of birds flitted & sang. Bob Marley crooned from a speaker. A smiling,  round, girl brought us two cold beers.

This was about as close to paradise as one could get. We were toasting the suns climb up the craters wall when the owner of this 'campground' approached & introduced himself. If there was anything he could do just ask.

"Can you change money?" asked Mike.

"Sure, I'll give you 480 to one." He said.

 

Mike wanted to climb Mt Kilimanjaro in the worst way...I on the other hand, did not. I would stay with the truck as my partner spent the next 5 days clawing, freezing & vomiting his way to the 20,000 foot summit. Some one had to watch the truck, in one of the poorest countries in the world (average income 160.oo per year.) it was like driving a mall on wheels. The high fence & 4 dogs were not to protect campers from dangerous animals but from locals.

As it turned out much of the next 3 months would be spent in these compounds across Africa. In these fenced enclosures we would meet the other people driving around the dark continent, in vehicles, from huge uni-mogs, carrying 14 bunks & its own bridges, to armored land rovers, to bicycles. Around campfires in these enclosures we would share tales of the wonder & horrors of travel in Africa.

 During the week in Lake Dilluti Campground I met an interesting assortment of travelers but became quite good friends with an odd couple in a cast iron Land Rover.

Ron, an Australian and Inga, a German, had driven from Amsterdam. In 12 months they had crossed the Sahara & West Africa. They had driven through wars & floods, riots & deserts in their armored Rover. The thing had solid steel plates welded over every window but the front, & that was covered with thick steel mesh. They carried 100 gallons of diesel, & 50 of water. A tent folded from the roof, a kitchen folded from the rear doors in seconds. A safe was welded to the frame, it carried 4 spare tires. The rover sported a huge winch & every part had a spare. They were ready.

Ron & Inga had both shaved their heads,(lice), they both wore nose rings, ear rings, ankle bracelets, rings on their toes, fingers,& necklaces. Gone native they said. Ron & Inga both had intestinal parasites & would occasionally double over in pain. They both had malaria...& they had some great stories.

"Where was it, love?" Ron would start. "The Gemu Gofa Desert of Ethiopia, we come along two guys lying in the middle of the road...& they are bloody well torn to pieces. Seems a lion tried to jump their camels, so these guys go after the lion with bloody spears. Well old Mr. Lion tears the 'ell out o em but they manage to kill the beast then crawl for two days to the road & lay there for another 2 days till I come along. I mean they had been layin in the sun holdin their guts in for 4 days now. Well, they had also skinned that lion so I drape the skin over my Rover, head hanging down the wind-screen, then lifted those two tough bastards up on that skin & drove off for their village.

"About 8 hours later we pulled into their village, lion skin & blood all over the car, wounded warriors waving, the villagers going nuts. A crowd of about 500 people carried us & the lion victims to the chief. The guy had a party for us for 3 days." Ron stared at the fire.

"What happened to the guys?" I asked.

"One died, infection...the other might have made it."

"Another time in Zaire I'm stopped changing a tire, all of a sudden some kid runs up & rips the mirror of the Rover. Well I drop everything & start chasing this guy yelling 'THIEF !! THIEF!!" So the whole village see's what's happening, they catch the guy....then beat him to death right in front of me. When he's dead they hand me the mirror & demand a tip!! A tip for killing the thief!! A TIP FOR KILLING THEIR OWN BROTHER!! "

"I barely got out of there with my life, Christ what a country, no food, no petrol, no law, total chaos. Yet the president, thanks to foreign aid is one of the richest men in the world. Go figure."

Lake Diluti Campground was a welcome respite from a month in the desert, & I took full advantage of it washing a layer of dust & film from myself & everything in that truck.

One night Ron & Inga were driving into Arusha for dinner & what night life the small African town offered, having decided to join them I approached the armed night watchman. I handed the grinning guard a dollar, pointed to the Trooper & repeated clearly:

"Watch that truck,! OK? Watch that truck!"

After all the truck was inside a fenced compound, what could possibly happen to it. The watchman stared blankly at the truck as we drove away.

Returning after midnight I was shocked to find the Trooper, sparkling in the moonlight. Clean as a whistle it was, 4 weeks of African grime gone.

That watchman had spent the entire evening hauling buckets of water from the lake to 'wash that truck.'

Diluti Campground offered 'hot showers', which consisted of lake water pumped into a huge iron drum, under which a fire was kept burning. The 'hot' water was then pumped to the showers coming out at anywhere between 40 degrees & 240 degrees. It was a memorable occasion, the bath.

My first morning, groggy with sleep, I stumbled to the showers, stopping first to brush my furry teeth at a algae covered sink attached to the shower building. The water trickled from a rusty faucet as I leaned my throbbing head into that swamp of a sink. Suddenly, from the crusty drain, not 3 inches from my nose, a huge lizard exploded. Its snake like head, covered with toothpaste came blasting up at my horrified face.

My body convulsed into a back flip, a scream escaped wide lips that awakened the entire camp. I lay on my back quivering like a beached fish as 20 campers stared.

"LIZARD!!" I screamed at them, as if this would explain the erratic behavior.

The African help stood about in awe having never witnessed quite a display of emotions over the sight of a lizard.

Quite shaken, I retreated to the shower stall & yelled to the water boy to commence pumping. The water flowed hot. Removing my watch, placing it on the window sill, I soaped up. 30 seconds later rinsing the soap from my eyes, the watch was gone. I leapt from that stall bear naked & commenced screaming like a banshee.."MY WATCH!! MY WATCH!! after all the watch had been on that arm many years. Again 20 campers & 10 Africans stared.

It was now apparent to the other people in that campground that the American was having a bad day. No one had seen any watch & no one wanted any thing to do with me.

I never saw the watch again..... fellow campers gave me the wide birth at the shower stall from then on.

 A certain red-bearded white man came to the camp from time to time. A white African, his family had been here for generations. He sold ostrich meat to the campers, & stayed to drink up the profits. He invited me to his ranch one afternoon, so next morning I drove out across Tanzania to find him.

Cruising down rural dirt tracks, through lush coffee & cacao, sparkling with morning dew , it seemed exceptionally good to be alive. I pulled along side three ragged farmers, road-standing.
"Excuse me gentlemen, could you direct me to the Ostrich Farm?"

"Why yes sir, in fact we were just going there, let us ride on the roof, we'll direct you there." They scrambled aboard.

In the next 10 miles, everyone that was 'road-standing', flagged us down & inquired as to our destination. When informed that it was the Ostrich Farm, why to a wonderful coincidence, they were going there too. In no time the Trooper was swaying along in the morning sun under the weight of about 20 Africans. Perched on hood & roof, clinging to the bumpers, everyone singing in melodious harmony, it was a joyous ride through that birdsong country side. When finally we did arrive at the farm, my African cargo simply leapt to the ground, laughing & handshaking, & walked on down the road.

I stood starring at their departure.

"Hey!! I thought you wanted a ride to the Ostrich Farm!! I Yelled.

"They just wanted a ride on your truck, man." Red-Beard, the owner had walked up beside me. "The Africans are very fun loving spontaneous people.

They will now walk all the way back to where they came from, laughing & singing & repeating what a glorious ride it had been."

"That's a hard thing.... to follow the heart." I waxed poetic.

"Not to a African." He answered.

He led me to a 20 acre fenced pen. 500 ostriches ran up to have a look.

"Don't get to close, their dangerous as hell, can rip you clean open with that big toe."

The long necks weaved like fat snakes as limpid eyes stared at us.

"Are they really dumb as they look?" I whispered.

"Oh man, they are dumber than dirt. Why when a male wants to impress a female, he'll do a little dance, start spinning around like a top. Well the poor bugger gets so impressed with himself he starts spinning faster & faster till he loses control & crashes off breaking one or both legs. An ostrich aint much without his legs, mate."

It was a fascinating tour as he showed me every aspect of ostrich production.

"Used to raise crocs, but ostriches are better. You can use every part of the bird, from feet to eyes, skin, feathers, meat."

It was late that night when I again returned to camp to find an exhausted Smilin Mike. It had taken he & his guides 4 days to scale Kilimanjaro. 4 days of sloging up the 19,565 Mt. Only one in 50 that attempt the climb actually make it, so Mike is beaming with pride & vigor. I to am greatly impressed with the feat.

 A few days are spent inching along the cliff hanging roads of Mt. Meru National Park. Roads cut through jungles that block the sky. Overhead in these limbs live an entire microcosm of species, the most flamboyant being the white-faced colombus monkeys. These seemingly fearless apes make jumps of 30 feet & freefalls of 60 feet before grabbing a lifesaving branch at the last moment. They chatter & heave fruit at our passing.

 Then south to Tarangire Nat. Park, known for its bizarre bao-bab trees. The legend has it the bao-bab was once the most beautiful tree in the world. However the bao-bab could not keep from boasting about its beauty till one day the Gods refused to listen any more, jerked the bao-bab from the ground & replanted it upside down. To this day the poor bao-bab looks as if its roots thrust skyward from a squat trunk 30 feet in diameter. The elephant strips bark for calcium, fox & badger live in burrowed holes in the trunk, hundreds of birds nest in its branches, lions climb into its limbs to escape the teste fly & huge pythons hibernate away the dry season in the tree. Sitting alone on a barren plain it is truly the tree of life. The weird bao-bab gives Tarangire a prehistoric flavor. It is also becomeing apparent Mike & I are going through some reverse evolution back to that time. Instead of camp chairs, we squat in the dirt. Instead of 'proper' meals we open a can of beans & wash it down with a hot beer, breakfast included. We communicate in grunts & growls. Odds bits of Masai jewelry has started to appear on our unwashed bodies. Our hair feels like a helmet, our skin scratched & brown. We feel good.

Night screams & howls that at one time would have kept us up for hours, now go unnoticed. We are adapting....somewhat.

One dusty afternoon in a wide valley, we notice 3 Land Rovers pulled into a line, obviously watching something entertaining.

"Mabey a lion Kill!!" I suggest to Mike as we race to see the show.

It was not a lion but a huge bull elephant the Rovers had lined up to see. Mike pulled along side the other tour company Rovers & watched the beast.

He was at least 14 foot tall & well over 6 tons, his flapping ears looked like hang gliders. From the side of his huge head secretions flowed from the open temporal glands. His trunk tested the air, a pizza sized front foot pawed the ground, throwing dust 20 feet in the air. He faced the Rovers 50 feet away & squinted his small piggish eyes. He looked agitated.

"That is an agitated elephant." Mike observed.

A half dozen khaki clad tourists, leaned from windows of the Rovers squealing with delight & snapping pictures like mad.

I believe it was the self winding cameras that finally got to him. That high pitched mechanical hum got to that massive beast as if you had hit him with a 20'000 watt cattle prod....& he charged.

An elephant, as big as it is, is amazingly quick. With 8 foot strides a charging elephant can cover 50 feet in 4 steps & 3 seconds.

Mike & the other drivers ground the vehicles into reverse, dropping the clutches & flooring the engines. Myself & the other passengers commenced to screaming. The 4 of our vehicles were too tightly packed, being only 3 feet apart, to turn out. We were all forced to flee in a pack, in reverse, crashing over boulders & trees at about 40 mph, the bellowing enraged elephant not yards from our grills. The Trooper was bouncing off rocks 2 feet high throwing its contents helter skelter. The occupants of the other Rovers were faring no better being tossed about the interiors like lottery ping pong balls.

From the front seat I was starring at the knees of the gigantic bull. He would smash us like a tortilla given the chance. His ear-splitting trumpeting had totally unnerved all of us, it was a mad scramble, dog eat dog, to get away from him. A Keystone Cops chase across the desert.

Finally the enraged elephant stopped, turned his butt toward us, & shit. An obvious show of disdain for the human species. Then he slowly wandered off across Africa. We sat panting, amid hissing tires & radiators, & the drip of ruptured oil pans...starring at a 3 foot high pile of football sized elephant shit. It had been a horrifying experience, I was fairly sure the elephant was not the only one with loose bowels at that point.

A few days later found us at Lake Manyara, a shallow saline lake literally blanketed in pink flamingos. Millions & millions of pink flamingos, Pelicans, cormorants, & sea gulls. As far as the eye could see a teaming, squalling sea of feathered bodies. Pulling onto the sandy shore we drive for miles along the water, the blanket of birds rising like a pink wave & engulfing us in a feathered ocean. The birds settling behind as a wave spreads on the beach. We were screaming at the top of our lungs in this overwhelming riot of noise & color.

Lake Manyara is also the home to herds, in the thousands, of zebra, wildebeest, gazelle & 10 other antelope species, giraffe & hippo. All together, as if this was some party, some special place in the world where all types of creatures came together to swill a little saline, & ...well...get down.

The din of all these ecstatic multitudes was tremendous, the stench unforgettable. Surely nowhere on earth can one stand in the middle of such a great profusion of life. It was a joyous, extremely sense fulfilling experience to witness the chaos of so much life.

On the long stretches of Manyaras 30 mile shore hyenas lope, looking like  4 footed Satan's they grin at our passing. Prides of fat lions lie in the grasses waiting for nightfall & another easy kill. This small pocket of nature must be as Africa once was....before the gun.

Another haven of nature, a sort of 'hole in the wall' for animals is Ngorongoro Crater. The huge crater, 20 miles across, is the home to practically every species in East Africa, all in a tiny microcosm. The steep crater walls keep most beasts on the crater floor, a broad plain of grasslands, rivers, forests & deserts. Cut off from the rest of the world the animals live & die without the interference of man....sort of. An regulated number of 4=4s are allowed in the crater each day. They negotiate a cliff hanging one lane dirt track, down in the morning, back in the afternoon. No one is allowed to camp in the crater...unless of course, like everything else in Africa, you have the money. In Tanzania that's a lot. The entrance to most parks is at least 100.oo per day per car. So in a park the size of Oregon your racing through  like a scalded ape. Mike & I were spending in a day what the average Tanzanian makes in a year. They had already, 'seen us coming'.

The plan was to slip into the vast Serengeti for the annual wildebeest migration but were told the migration just wasn't what it used to be, since rich cattle ranchers had built fences across the Kalahari a thousand miles south. 300,000 Wildebeest were trapped by the fences & died of thirst...so some fat cat could raise a few cattle, the scourge of Africa.

When one flies over Africa it is a shock to see the protected land verses the peopled land. Goats, cattle, & guns have turned the Africa outside park fences into a virtual desert. Not a blade of grass, not a drop of water, not a wild animal exist outside the fence. Inside protected parks, where Africa was left alone, there exists lush green, watered lands teaming in life.

The line between a dust bowl desert & a Eden is only as wide as the fence.

Left alone, man has completely destroyed his own environment.

We head east, toward the Indian ocean & Tanzania's main port, Dar Es Salaam. Tanzanian roads....well 'road' is to good a word for the consecutive huge pot holes & crumbled cement that constitute a red line on the map. Any type of maintenance faded to a stop 20 years ago so now its a wild west, get through as you can. Bridges are gone, flash flood gullies wash out huge sections, burned out car & truck bodies of the 'to aggressive driver' litter the roadside.

As if the condition of the roads aren't bad enough, the military is out in force sucking from the survivors. An example:

Its morning, hot & muggy, three cups of coffee did nothing to wake you up. You come around a blind corner a bit to fast & there, stretching across both lanes is a huge log with 10 inch spikes sticking every which way from it. Behind the log stand a dozen grinning men in army fatigues all pointing AK47s at your face. You hope they are actual soldiers.

You stop the car. The odds are against running it.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?? Barks a sergeant with a head like a chopping block.

"Ah, Bagamoyo, Bergmia, Bologna..."

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN???"

"Ah, Mombo? Mocha? Mbulu? You are sweating bullets with that stubby machine gun in your face, you are butchering their language...

"WHERE ARE YOU FROM??

You fumble with your passports & pray George Bush has done nothing to piss off Tanzania in the last 24 hours.

"YOU ARE AMERICANS?? WHAT HAVE YOU BROUGHT ME FROM AMERICA??"

"Well nothing really...."

"YOU ARE SPIES FOR GEORGE BUSH??"

"Well mabey we do have a little something for you...."

In Nairobi we had invested in a case of cheap Kenyan whiskey. It was better than gold for bartering. We were soon on our way.

" I really hate that!!" I was telling Mike, "Everywhere you go in the third world there's some pimply faced kid with a huge gun wanting to know where your going, where you've been, they all dress up alike, fatigues, ray-bans, then say, "Hey get the guns, lets go scare hell outa some tourists!!" HA!

"We're just lucky they were soldiers, & not just 'some guys with machine guys,' looking for 'some guys with a car.'"

 He had a point there, so many countries in Africa are like that. There is no money, no jobs, no food & plenty of Russian & American weaponry. The gun is the law, he with the most guns wins. Consequently, the only commerce, the only wealth what-so-ever is traveling down the one road in the country. So that's where the bandits are...trouble is, you don't who is who. They all have logs across the road, they all have machine guns, they all wear fatigues. Do they just want to see your papers, did they want everything you have?

Made for interesting driving on the road to the Indian Ocean.

 Dar Es Salaam is not home to the rich & famous, Dar Es Salaam Tanzania is a   sweltering snakepit of cutthroats & thieves. The nicest section of town, about 2 blks long, was still frightening in broad daylight. We hadn't walked a block & there were already half a dozen shifty looking reprobates following along. It did not seem unreasonable to think we were about to get jumped, downtown, in the broad daylight...

I walked like a cat, ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger. Spring where, was the question. Arriving at the docks & inquireing as to passage to Zanzibar, The Arab-African Island 22 miles of the coast. we were informed one could sail in an Arab dhow, open sailing craft, with 200 Africans for 8-12 hours, depending on the wind, or one could take the ferry which had already left. 20 greaseballs now stood 10 feet away sizing us up.

"Spose we could get one of these nice fellows to watch the Trooper while we're gone?" I asked Mike.

"I got a better idea." said my smiling partner, follow me." We headed back towards the car, back through the shadow off death. Then it came to me...this could an excellent time for 'Snatch-It-Back!"

Snatch It Back is a pocket-sized spring loaded mechanism with a thin 6 foot fishing line on a recoil. To the other end of the line one attaches a dollar bill. You drop the bill, someone reaches for it, you release the button & zip, right back in your pocket that bill flies. A real crowd pleaser.

The crowd of pirates were close behind now, I could smell the sweat...I dropped the dollar from my pocket, took another step & stopped. The entire mob saw dollar fall, Tansanians don't miss things like that. There was a pause, who would go for the dollar? Suddenly a ragged lad of about 15

dove for the bill, I released the button, the bill shot from under his fingers to my pocket. a yelp escaped his lips he leapt back to the safety of the crowd.

There was a shocked silence as those murderers stared at us like ET was standing in our shoes. Mike & I started to laugh, started to howl.

The crowd started to laugh, then started to howl, they were slapping the would be thief on the head, slapping us on the back. We walked away from the broken, giggling mob.

"I tell you what, this Snatch-It-Back is as impressive as a AK47 in this country!" I had to admit.

Mike did have an idea...& a damn good one. We escaped the crumbling ,crowded city & pulled into the airport. The private terminals, the freight terminal to be exact. Mike walked into the small office.

"Anyone here going to Zanzibar today?" One pilot another.

"Sure am mate, I'm carrying a air -conditioner over in about 10 minutes, & yer sure welcome to come along." A blonde Englishman beamed.

Mike told him about the Trooper.

"No problem boys we'll stick it in the hanger, long as you like."

Such is Africa. One minute your on a stinking Arab Dhow, the next a private airplane.

 

Zanzibar's colorful history is due to the monsoon winds. These are the winds that blow south down Africas coast for 6 months then north up the coast for 6 months enabling traders as far back as the year 700 to sail to & from Zanzibar Island. The Island was settled by Persians, Arabs, Portuguese, Indians, Bantus, & British. The people & the architecture to this day is a mixture of all.

It was one of the major slave trade ports in the 1800's. 15,000 slaves a year

for 75 years were held & shipped from Zanzibar. Their ghosts linger in the narrow streets & crumbling quarters of the ancient city.

It is a Muslim Island where drinking is prohibited, but for one bar, the antique, once grand British Club.

 That's where we were.

"Can you believe on a 1200 square mile Island, this is the only bar?"

I mentioned to Mike as all types of crude yet graceful African sailing vessels

ghosted by the Clubs balcony.

 Awakened at 4:oo in the morning by the eerie Muslim call to prayer floating down the age-old streets, you rise & join the spirits of generations walking those narrow coridors. Wandering the alleys & courtyards of that fabled city for days, turning corners to behold such sights as to transport one 1000 years back in time. A friendly place, you could walk day or night without fear. Zanzibar is virtually crime free. The town square comes alive at night with the population walking hand in hand to the beats of a dozen different types of music. Food stalls are set along the walks with aromas of hundreds of exotic spices filling the soft ocean air. It is a magical place, full of sights & sounds of yesteryear.

 

This sightseeing was wearing us out though, we needed a vacation. It so happened that an enterprising Indian lad, Ail, had attached himself to us days ago, virtually carrying out our every wish. A Vacation?

"AH, sirs," Said Ali one fine morning, "If one cares to relax on Zanzibar, one goes to the east coast, mabey to Jambiani."

"OK Ali, get us to Jambiani."

A half hour later clinging to the back of a pickup, careening across Zanzibar towards Jambiani. 12 other passengers, all suddenly having to go to Jambiani, were jammed in the pummeled import. Sure we were paying for the bulk of the ride....but it didn't matter, it was a crisp clear African morning, the passing fields of spices made the air a pleasure to breathe. Everyone we passed smiled & waved. What in the world was wrong with these people?

Why was everyone so friggen happy? Didn't they know the rest of the world had turned to dog-meat...didn't they care?

Jambiani was a collection of stone & thatch huts, spread under a grove of swaying palms. A white sand beach, fine as sugar, stretched to both horizons.

The water, the color of emerald was as flat as Olive Oils chest. It was a tropical paradise if there ever was one.

Jumping from the truck by the Jambiani Hotel, a few huts indistinguishable from the rest, we slumped onto the verandah. It had been a hot & dusty trip across the island alright. A waiter approached, Mike ordered two beers.

"I am sorry sir, there is no beer..."

Mike leapt to his feet grabbing the diminutive waiter by his lapels & lifting him three feet from the floor....

"WHAT?? NO BEER??? SURELY YOU JEST MY GOOD MAN!!!"He screamed

The waiter blanched, his eyes looked like headlights, his lip trembled.

"Mabey I can have some brought from town." Mike released him, he took off running after the truck that had brought us. He placed the order & the only vehicle in Jambiani went bouncing on back down the only road. The waiter

returned to us. "We will have beer tomorrow."

"It'll be allright., "AARRRGGG!"

Mike crawled into a hammock, I went for an afternoon stroll through the small village & down the beach. Palm trees hung over the perfect sand, it was truly a romantic spot...if only there was a...a girl... HA!  Here??

 Suddenly, there was a girl, a white girl, a young attractive white girl sitting alone under a palm. A chessboard was set up on a log next to her....she was alone...an attractive white girl...the only person on this beach for as far as the eye could see. A.. .white...girl...alone...  

I couldn't believe my eyes...I stood starring at her, a white girl...

"It iz about time you got here." She said...French accent.

"PPHHHSSSBBBTT." I agreed.

"I needz a partner for , how you say, Chest?"

"Chess." I ventured.

Her name was Danielle Chenevard, she was Swiss, 23, & was traveling across Africa alone. She had purchased Peugeot in Paris, driven it across the Sahara, & sold it to a Arab at a tasty profit. She would now travel for the next year on the money she had made.

"When only I was 18, I hitch-hiked across South America." She told me.

We passed a beautiful afternoon telling tales of travel as she hammered my chess game. It was late in the afternoon when she suggested a swim & ran laughing into the blood warm Indian Ocean. Danielle dove under & surfaced with her bathing suit in hand. "Hold Diz Please?" She handed me the suit & dove under again, sleek as a dolphin. I was beginning to really like this girl.

I peeled my suit & wrapped it with hers about my arm.

We had frolicked about for an hour when Danielle suggested returning to the hotel. I pulled the suits from my arm...hers was gone! No trace of it, having drifted away on the currents.

"Oh My God! I'm really sorry Danielle, I feel terrible..." sure I did.

"At iz OK, I have many more...no worries." She stepped from the water stark naked & glistening in the sunset.

"Come cowboy." I stepped from the water pulled on my suit, took her arm, & together we strolled down the beach. Then through town, Danielle naked as a jaybird, smiling & waving to the delighted townsfolk. A small mob of bare black children joined in laughing & singing.

Mike was sitting alone on the verandah sipping from a coconut when I strolled up. The lovely, naked Danielle on my arm..

He starred at her, She didn't seem to mind.

"Where....where have you been"...He stammered "I'd like to go there..."

I introduced them, Danielle curtsied, excused herself & went to her hut for clothing. I ordered a coconut from the stunned waiter & sat next to Mike,

. We watched Danielle sway down the beach.

"Its a good life, my friend!" I toasted Mike with the coconut. He looked like a fly-trap.

  " I want to go where you went...I want...He was mumbling.

It was an idyllic 3 days in Jambiani, swimming, playing chess, & capturing dinner on the reef. Living on lobster & octopus, with our own bungalow, all for 5.oo per day. It was a very sweet life.

At night, by the light of a silver moon, the towns male population played soccer on the beach. Their sleek black bodies leaping & twisting, silhouetted against the shimmering sea. The rest of us sat by fires, sipping from coconuts, chewing on stewed octopus & lobsters. I hated leaving, never leave one good time for another I kept repeating, while driving away, leaving Danielle waving from the sand. Never leave one good time for another....

We returned to Dar Es Salaam via ferry boat & never saw Danielle again..yet.

 

 The Trooper headed west bumping & crashing across Tanzania's 'roads.'

In a town called Mikumi, we became entwined in a funeral procession. Driving at a slow walk to the hypnotic beat of drums it took an hour to go the 5 blocks. On the outskirts of town the road forked, no sign.

A beaming Tanzanian, that may have been Eddy Murpys brother, stood by the fork. I leaned from the window...

"Which way to Iringa, my good man?"

He leaned close, beaming.

"Well sir," He said, "You go straight down this road for mabey a mile, you take a left, then you ask somebody else!"

An honest African answer.

We arrived in Iringa hot & shaken, the following afternoon.

The place looked like Dodge City. Dirt streets, wooden sidewalks, swinging door saloons, false fronts, cowboy hats, only every face was black.

Mike & I were due for showers...past due...& due for a decent meal. He stopped the Trooper in front of what looked like Miss Kitty's Place. The Iringa Hotel. We entered through double doors & chose a table. The beaming owner approached.

"What have you for dinner tonight?" I asked.

"For dinner tonight gentlemen we have fish!! Come & you will see!!" He led us to the kitchen. On the greasy counter of the smoky kitchen two tiny Piranha looking creatures lay.

"Sure enough," Mike said, "Fish."

"Have you some wine?"

"Wine....no problem!!" He whispered to a small boy hovering about. The kid then took off out the front door like a scaulded ape.

"And possibly a room??" I asked.

"A room??" No problem!!"  Taking my arm & leading me up a flight of stairs, he opened a door & waved me in. Immediately a cockroach the size of a Cocker Spaniel broke for the door. I stomped at it, spraining my ankle on its back.

"GOOD SHOT!!" The owner congratulated me.

The room was a African hotel room all right. Green peeled paint, two sagging cots. 'Hot water?" I asked.

"Both hot & cold sir!" He assured me, "sometimes hot, sometimes cold!"

We returned to the restaurant, now filling with patrons.

"One other question Sir." I asked, "Where might we park our car, I fear for its safety on the street." Already a small crowd was gathering around the Trooper outside. Window shopping...

"Why that is not a problem!!" He was beaming like the sun. "You'll park it,.. HERE!! He spread his arms.

"In the restaurant?" Mike asked.

"But yes sir!!", He ran to the front doors threw them wide, then started shuffling tables & patrons aside. "HERE!!" He howled! "HERE!!"

Mike got in the Trooper & slowly drove into the restaurant, the owner & I directing him around dinning customers, & furniture.

"PERFECT!!" Yelled the owner. Mike shut it off in the middle of the room, all the patrons pushed their tables back where the had been. Dinning went on as usual in Iringas finest resturant. The fact that there was a huge, stinking, filthy truck in the dinning room seemed of little consequence.

The next morning the smiling owner directed us back through the breakfast crowd, out onto main street & we were off again.

Searching for adventure.

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                                        PART 3  MALAWI

 

Do not insult the crocodile, until you have crossed the river.

                                                            African proverb

 

What I look forward to is continued immaturity followed by death.

                                                            Dave Barry

 

The tsetse fly is the pit-bull of insects, the tyrannosaurus of flies. You'll be buzzing along at 70 mph, when a tsetse fly will pull along side your open window. You glance over at the fanged, hairy, marble sized fly, it grins at you. You desperately try to roll up the window, the 70 mph fly is laughing now, laughing at this hot-house flower of a white man, laughing at his futile attempts to avoid this vicious bug. Suddenly, out of sheer spite, the tsetse dives for your face, it slams into your forehead like 90 mph hardball & sinks its teeth to the gums into your skull. You jerk like a biology frog, swerving across the shoulder less road swatting your face with the road atlas. Its a direct hit, a hit that would have flattened an American fly into....well, fly-paper. The tsetse is aggravated, you've messed his hair. He pulls away from your face, studies you for a second, then dives like a F14 at your mouth. You are able to just get the old trap shut, when he slams fangs first into your lower lip. "AAARRRRRGGG!!" You scream, the tsetse drops into your mouth, sinking its teeth into your tongue. "PPPSSSSSBBBTTT!!!" Your swerving all over the road, as you finally are able to dislodge the beast from tongue & spit him out....right into your crotch...& your wearing loose shorts.

"AAIIEEE!!" You've dropped the steering wheel altogether now, violently smashing at your groin area with the road atlas. The despicable bug takes a chunk out of your inner thigh & disappears up your shorts, just about the time the car leaves the road. The Trooper slams down into a desert of thorn bushes as the tsetse again sinks his teeth into....you got it...'lil Johnson.'

The Trooper bashes into an Acacia tree & stops, you leap from the truck & tear of your shorts, swatting like a man possessed at your private parts.

The tsetse flies off, a evil grin, spreading across it's blood covered face. He likes white man, much more tender than buffalo.

Your sweating bullets, shaking like a bowl of jello. There's so many holes, you could be Swiss cheese. A knot the size of a grapefruit is forming on your forehead, your lip looks like a polish sausage, your tounge belongs in a cow, & 'lil Johnson.' has disappeared all together & cant be found for days after. Now that you've survived the attack, all you've got to worry about is sleeping sickness....oh yeah, Tsetse Flies carry Sleeping Sickness, a nasty little affliction whereupon the victim sleeps all day, & roams around all night, trying to kill people. You'll have a 50-50 chance of living through the disease. Entire sections of Africa are uninhabited due to the tsetse fly.

But we had other things to worry about, we had a border crossing. The Tanzanian, Malawi border. Rumers had it that some border crossing were just flat impossible to get through, so mired down in corruption as to be inoperable.

Mike stopped the car on a hill above the crossing & checked it for any 'suggestible items.' This might be anything from books to bisquits. We changed our cloths, Malawi doesn't accept any one shorts. Women in Malawi, & this includes tourists, must keep their legs covered at all times.

We went over our money declarations, trying to match money spent with money claimed. In most African countries the government tries to curb the thriving black market at the borders, by forcing you to buy at least some of their money ligitatmently from banks. You must keep the receipts, the money spent must match the number of days in the country. Its a totally confusing system, one which we had to figure out 9 different times at 9 different borders. Surrounding the customs house, 5 feet inside the country wait 30 black market money sales men. In fact the customs agent will often introduce you to his 'brother' who can give you the most money for your money, & in some countries that is a stack 6 inches deep for a100.oo bill.

I discovered I had 20.oo U.S. of Tanzanian money left, Mike had about 10.oo. It could not be traded back in for dollars, it was no good anywhere else, a pile of worthless money.

A small tattered boy, stood in the bushes along side the road. I approached him, smiling. He looked skeptical.

"Jambo nino!", I threw a little Spanish Swahili at him, he returned a shy greeting.

"Here." I handed him the 30.oo in Tanzanian money, an impressive stack of colorfull notes.

Mike & I drove off leaving the stunned child staring at the money, & pretty much assuring him a life of standing alongside the road before the border.

We were ushered through the Tanzanian customs, health, immigration, duties, this that & the other thing. Rubber stamps were smashed on 'official' papers, then were escorted outside to the Trooper & made to empty its contents onto the road. No small feat, considering there was 4 months of supplies in there, & it was about 110 degrees on that road. They poked & prodded the huge pile of goods, then made us load it back up.

Cleared out of Tanzania, we drove across a bridge into Malawi, & were told to remove everything from the car & spread it on the road. They poked, & prodded then made us load it back. It was no cooler in Malawi.

Another series of paper chases & questions.

Why had we come to Malawi?  No Idea. Where will we stay in Malawi? Until two days earlier you had never even heard of Malawi, how could you possibly know a good hotel there. How long will you stay? How long can you stay? What is your purpose there? Your not sure about that either.

Finally over the barrel of a M16, you are welcomed to "Friendly Malawi!"

 There is immediately something different about Malawi...its the roads, two lanes & shoulders with pavement. Almost un-heard of in Africa. The President for life has apparently put all the money in the country into roads. Beautiful roads with modern government gas stations, camp tables, & in the capital Lilongwe a 10 mile section of 4 lanes lined with huge steel flag poles flying banners. This is all well & good, however the President seems to have overlooked one detail. There are no vehicles in Malawi. No one owns a car, all the transport trucks have been wrecked on the 'new highways.' We in fact seem to have the only vehicle in Malawi, & the thousands of people that are walking wave & scream as if we were the entire Rose Bowl Parade.

There are no vehicles in Malawi, so how does everything get around?

On the heads of women. Every woman in Malawi will have, if not a transmission, a 5 gal bucket of water balanced upon her head. Women stand about chatting as if totally unaware of the Lazy Boy Recliner balanced above.

If there is a bicycle or burro in the family, the man will ride, the wife will walk behind carrying the entire household, from sleeping mats, firewood, kitchen utensils, 5 gal water, food, clothing & at least 3 children. An average woman of Malawi bears 8 children in her life. They are a sturdy group.

The other form of transportation seems to be a wide variety of stick vehicles. That's right, everything from wheelbarrows to full sized cars, made of sticks. Lashed together with vines, they sport solid wood wheels, wood steering wheels, the entire car built of sticks.  Men in business suits pushing these contraptions up the hills then everyone leaping in for a wild careening ride down the other side. So here we have the nicest highways in Africa, & traffic that looks like something from One flew over the Cuckoos Nest.

 Yet everyone seems healthy & happy in this Switzerland of Africa. The president has wisely kept Malawi out of most African wars, free trading with both sides of a conflict. The result is a tranquil semi-prosperous little country.  There's food in the markets.

The country itself is more like Oregon than Africa, with fir trees & blue mountain ranges. Malawi's Eastern border is the 350 mile long Lake Malawi,

a crystal clear warm body of water that provides most of the worlds freshwater tropical fish. Its like swimming in the Caribbean without the salt!

Across the lake, twenty miles away the sun rises over war torn Mozambique, a once beautiful country now devastated with 20 years of civil strife. At sunset Mozambique is shimmering red across the water, as if drenched in its citizens own blood. The sad fate of many 'modern' African countries.

 Camped on beaches called Karonga, & Chilumba, then in our battered Izuzu, arrive in Muzuzu, a tranquil tree lined community. We are told Nkhata Bay is an interesting town & soon find ourselves bumping down the dusty main street of this lake port town. An enterprising urchin jogs alongside the Trooper, claiming he knows the most beautiful beach in Malawi. We like the kid, dub him 'Lil Richard', toss him on the hood where he sits & directs us through town, into the jungle, over a small mountain range, down a cliff- hanging jeep road, to what is indeed the most beautiful beach in Malawi.

We set up camp under swaying palms, a half dozen fishermen gather about giggling & starring. There is a large round bamboo hut, the only building, on the beach. The 'Bar & Restaurant' Richard informs us. We head for it in the late afternoon. About 10 locals, line the bar, three bartenders lounge behind the counter. A huge refrigerator hums, a tiny radio crackles.

We order a cold beer.

"I am sorry sir there is no beer...there is nothing." He opens the vacant freezer.

"Well how bout some food, some fish?" We ask.

"There is no food either sir."

"Well is this not a Bar & Restaurant?"

"Yes sir it is, however all our supplies must come from Nkhata Bay, over the Mountain, & as you can see we are to tired to carry all those supplies that long distance." He eyed the Trooper, "However you sirs have that fine strong automobile & could greatly aid us by bringing supplies from town."

Mike & I looked at each other, the non-drinking 10 patrons looked at us, the non pouring bartenders looked at us. It was the saddest thing in the world. A bar with nothing to drink.

"Lets Go!" Mike yelled, a cheer went up from the crowd, & everyone scattered into the jungle. The bartenders produced a pile of cash & a long grocery list.

Mike & I all headed to the truck & stopped in horror. The word had spread like fire, people were coming out of the woodwork for this 'ride to town.' Women with baskets & buckets, wounded & sick headed for the doctor, fishermen & children. A group of about 30 people were trying to climb atop the Trooper.

Mike thinned the riders to about 15 of the most adamant & we headed up the pass, the truck leaning & groaning under the weight of its happily singing passengers. Arriving in Nkhata Bay at sunset, the townspeople were cheering our arrival, the crowd on the roof waving & yelling to friends. The Tropper seemed to be the only vehicle in town.

 Nkhata Bay was in a tumultuous uproar, its citizens acting as if Timothy Leary may have tainted the water supply. Every bar had huge, bad speakers blasting at the staggering population on main street. Huge bad speakers, all playing a different bad disco beat. People were crawling in the dirt street, fighting & dancing with each other, at times it being difficult to determine which was which. Withered old women were selling fried lizards, & peeled monkeys. Dogs barked, naked dusty kids scampered about the frenzied crowd. Everyone in town looked hammered.

I yelled over the din to our roof passengers:

WHAT's  GOING ON HERE?!!" Surely these people didn't carry on like this every night.

"FERRY'S COMIN TO TOWN!!"

They were'nt talking about Tinker Bell, either.

It seems a large paddle wheeler makes its way up & down the 350 mile lake once a week. The boat contains produce, livestock, smuggled goods. Gamblers salesmen, entertainers all travel with the ferry. Every time the boat docks it is a party, an entire town turning out to trade & party.

So there was a party of nuclear proportions going on in that dusty street.

 Right in the center of this uproar a circle of living room furniture was arranged, and sitting in this circle a half dozen dignitaries in business suits sipping tea. There was a tea party going on in the middle of what looked like the Attica prison riot.

Mike parked the Trooper at the edge of the crowd, our passengers swarmed over the sides...

 "HEAD BACK IN ONE HOUR!" I yelled as they scampered into the crowd.

Mike & I stood staring at the crazed crowd when one of the tea party dignitaries approched.

"THE CHIEF WOULD LIKE TO WELCOME YOU!! He screamed over the Bee Gees.

Taking us by the arms he steered through the deranged crowd, to the circle of furniture. An elderly silver haired gentleman in a three piece suit stood to welcome us.

"I AM THE CHIEF!!" He screamed over the din.

An obvious fact really. On his lapel was pinned a large plastic insurance convention name tag. It said 'Hello, my name is THE CHIEF.

"HAPPY TO MEET YOU SIR!!" We screamed & ducked as a whiskey bottle flew past. The chief snapped an order, two guys tore off down the street, returning in seconds with someones living room couch. The Chief bade us to sit. He leaned toward us as a body was thrown from a second floor window behind him...no one noticed.

"I AM HAPPY YOU ARE HAPPY TO MEET ME, WHEN I AM HAPPY EVERYONE IS HAPPY!!" He screamed. The other dignitaries nodded enthusiastically.

"WERE HAPPY YOUR ALL HAPPY!!" I screamed.

"A HAPPY PLACE YOU GOT HERE!! Mike screamed, as someones hair caught fire behind him.

For the next hour we sat discussing our 'good buddy', George Bush. The Chief seemed pleased that George had sent Mike & I to personally greet the Chief & extend warm invitations to the White House.

Most of the conversation was lost in the bedlam however, with everyone smiling & no one understanding a word.

I was glad to leave as my face was hurting from smiling. The Trooper was loaded with 20 cases of beer & just as many of food. Our passengers again climbed on the roof & off we went down main street. A scene right out Mad Max, parties with the Terminator, was going on as we departed 'Ferry Night'

in Nkhata Bay.

,The Troppers troups were welcomed like heroes back at the beach, & for the next 3 days were treated like kings. Much to everyones sadness, including our own, Mike, I & 'The Car' finally moved on.

 One of the few parks in Malawi, Kasonga National Park, seems to be a Tsetse Fly breeding ground. But that's the good part, the heat would discourage an Arab, & there's nothing to see.

 Creeping along a dust covered boulder strewn track at about 5 mph. To the edge of this track grew a 12 foot high wall of desert thorn trees.

One could not walk or even see 2 feet into the thicket. If there was an animal in the park, it would have to collide with the car to be seen.

It was about 140 degrees.

"This is a nasty little spot, Eh?" I was mumbling, African sun beating through the window, fine silt dust clogging my nose hair, I was nodding off...

"There's no animals out here." Mike was behind the wheel & nodding also in the hot sun.

Suddenly, 3 feet in front of the Trooper an animal the size of a moose exploded from the wall of thicket shot across the road & disappeared into the other side....

"ELAND!!!" Screamed Mike & slammed on the brakes.

Then from the same thicket four female lions exploded & raced past the front of the Trooper in hot pursuit of the Eland.

"LIONS!!" We both screamed in case the other wasn't quite sure what had actually happened.

There we sat panting with excitement stopped in the road, staring at...nothing. It was as if it had never happened, the empty track stretched ahead. Continued on, this time on the edge of our seats. A half hour droned on...you relax. Then a screaming wart hog bursts from the trees, jumping your heart, with a howling pack of teeth gnashing baboons in close pursuit, & they too disappeared like shooting stars. As if they had never been there.

"This is a little unnerving!" Commented Mike as a Cape Buffalo detonated from the starboard side & stampeded across the road.

"BUFFALO ACROSS THE BOW!!" He screamed  "PIG ON THE QUARTER!~!"

The action was starting to pick up as we made camp that evening by a muddy water hole. The brush came to within 10 feet of the water & surrounded the Trooper. Mike & I could see nothing, but the screams & growls emitting from that blackened bush all night were enough to unnerve Rambo.

It was barely dawn when we rose & tiptoed down to the waters edge. A large family of hippos grunted & quarreled at the far end of the small pond.

Mike walked the south side, I took the north & advanced slowly on the hippos. Then sitting directly across from each other, busy taking award winning photos across the sunrise lit water, complete with foreground hippos complaining. I looked down to change film, looked up & there was a herd of elephants....right were Mike had been 30 seconds earlier. He was no where to be seen. Had they trampled my partner for Gods sake...before coffee?? Then I saw him, headed to the car, minutes ahead of being flattened. Ah, Africa.

The following day found us departing the park heading for Malawi's major city, Lilongwe.  Racing down a paved one lane road playing a heart stopping game of 'chicken' with oncoming traffic. Both parties would wait until seconds before a head on collision to swerve off the road. Luckily, there just wasn't that much traffic in Malawi. Tearing over a blind hill & there dancing in the road were two trees & a bush. Mike locked up the brakes, the trees were scampering for the ditch, when the Trooper slid along side them.

"Mike," I asked, "Do you see two trees & a bush dancing?"

"I do." We stepped from the car, the trees approached us, the bush stayed behind. Then I realized these were no trees but people dressed as trees, walking on stilts, inside a trunk, & covered with leaves & feathers. Not a sound was being made as they leaped around us.

I had heard of these guys, this tribe that assumes the likeness of some plant or animal in an effort to provoke its spirit into a blessing for a plentiful year. For a month the person would not only dress the part but would mentally assume the creature he was playing. As a tree the person of course would make no noise, but I had also heard of these guys dressed as lions where for a month they snap & snarl, growl & fight like lions. If someone is attacked & killed by this lion-man while he is under this possession the lion-man is not held accountable, as he had actually become a lion, they believe.

The trees swayed above us, 12 feet tall on their stilts. There were no faces, they made no sound. It was an Erie feeling, standing below these tree-men, when suddenly they spun away & danced into the brush. We watched them go in silence.

"Its a strange world." Mike mumbled & drove off.

 

Lilongwe is surely the strangest city in Africa. The international airport sits about 20 miles from town, as if Malawi's only plane would bother anyone. From the airport to town the road is a four lane boulevard lined with huge steel flag poles, flying banners 15 feet long. In the middle of nowhere this ridiculous expensive highway as if you were entering Rome itself. In a country where most people cant afford food, the government has chosen to invest millions in flag poles & banners.

Other than a few oxcarts, we are the only vehicle on that grand highway. It is as if the road was built just for our entry.

The center of town is divided by a huge park, a park 5 miles across. If you cant find an item here, it is a five mile drive,(or walk for most people) to check other stores. 'New' Lilongwe is exactly that. Right out of Southern California, it boasts a mall with supermarkets, theaters, & boutiques. The place is as modern & sterile as urban America, with no people. As no one in Malawi can afford a Gucci dress, much less a theater ticket the streets of 'New' Lilongwe are empty. Sales people stare at fly spots in this city of chrome & glass. There are no customers, no lookers, no people at all.

The Malawian government has copied America, in the heart of Africa, & it is pitiful.

Old Lilongwe on the other hand is Africa. Happy, stinking, colorful & alive the streets bustle with smiling black faces. One starts to notice after 2 months in Africa, that no one raises their voices here. It is a rare occasion you will hear an African yelling at another. The African culture is as warm & alive as any on earth. Any American influence here seems criminally insane.

It is a city, however & we take the opportunity to restock our supplies & mail letters home, Then its off to Zambia.

The road into Zambia leads along the border of war torn Mozambique, a country in chaos from 20 years of civil war. Travelers are advised not to stop for anything or anyone. Bandits, rebels & desperate refugees prowl the road, stopping & killing entire convoys.

Cleared into Zambia at a town called Chipata, amid a wild celebration for their first democratic election. Seems the last 'president' escaped the country with all the money, leaving his country one of the poorest & most corrupt in Africa.

After being forced to buy 50.oo of Zambian Kwachas at the bank rate of 70 to 1, we clear customs, step outside & are deluged by money changers. The black market rate is 400 to 1. Poor Zambia, an economic wasteland.

An intelligent looking young Zambian stands by the Trooper staring at our gear.

"We are free now with these elections." He tells me "We are all equal now."

Then he points to our laden down Trooper "Some more equal than others."

When departing Chipata & heading down the infamous 'Gun Run" the border with Mozambique, we were advised to get as far from the border as possible by nightfall, but as this stretch is 200 miles long its obvious that is not going to happen. I consult the map.

"How bout this road north into South Luangwa Park, looks to be only about 50 miles, be there by dark."

"What's the road like?" Asked Mike.

"Why its Pfad oder Karawanenweg, with some Sumpf & Salwuste." I read.

"OK then, lets do it!"

The road was Karawanenweg allright, if that meant corrugation. The road was washboard city. If I tried to drive slow it had to be a creep, & trying to get the Trooper fast enough for 'the plane' was nerve shattering.

"YOUR WRECKING THE DAMN TRUCK!!" Mike would shout over the violently shaking Trooper.

"YOU WANNA DRIVE SMARTASS??" I'd yell back, my head pounding with the heat & radical vibration. Bolts were flying from the dash, door handles & mirrors were falling off, the noise was like a train wreck, the strain was terrible on man & machine. When shaking violently through a small town, the townspeople, started waving & shouting as if we were on fire.

"WHAT DO THEY WANT?" I snapped, head pounding like a jackhammer.

"BETTER STOP!! THEY SEEM KINDA EXCITED!!

I stopped the Trooper to a blessed silence...then smelled it...GAS!!

Mike & I dove from the truck, & peered underneath. The spare gas tank had fallen off again, dragging down the gravel road underneath, spewing sparks & petrol. It was nothing short of a miracle we hadn't been blown to high heaven. The villagers that had saved our lives now came running with cooking pots & pans to catch the spilling gas. Two ragged men crawled under the smoking Trooper & went to work on the ruptured tank. With gas steaming on the hot exhaust, & pouring in their eyes they managed to rig a plug from an old inner tube, patch the good tank, & remove the old one. 40 people stood around laughing & joking with the men under the truck. Finally repairs were made & the townsfolk poured the gas they had caught in their cooking pots back into the Trooper.

I asked the two mechanics what I could pay them, the crowd got deathly quiet as the two gas soaked men stared at the ground & shuffled their feet.

Finally one of the men shyly mumbled "100 Kwachas.

 A murmur went through the crowd. Apparently 30 cents was a high price for major auto repair.

"100 KWACHAS!!" Mike yelled, The men shrunk in embarrassment for getting caught at this outrageous rip-off. A moan of pity went through the crowd.

I'LL  GIVE YA 500 KWACHAS...APIECE!!"  Mike Shouted.

A roar went up from the crowd, smiles broke out on the horde of black faces.

"AND A SPECIAL GIFT FOR EVERYONE!!" I yelled & handed the beaming mechanic our last bottle of Kenyan whiskey.

The crowd went berserk, lifting the filthy grease monkeys on their shoulders

& carrying them off to the village singing & laughing.

Mike & I watched them go..."God we're good guys." I said.

Having just given them 1.50 for two hours work, we are big, big people." Mike agreed.

The peiced togeathor Trooper rattled up to Luangwa Parks gate long after dark. Our nerves were shattered from the 8 hours of violent vibration.

A park warden stepped from a dark guard post. A machine gun was slung across his back.

"It is 100.00 US. per day to enter the park." he informed us."

"WHAT!!" That was a fortune here. We turned around & headed for a reputed lodge, a 'short distance' away. Another hour ensued of temper building ruts till finally bouncing into a small riverside lodge, 4 small bungalows surrounded an open bar.

There was one person in the bar, an American working on his doctorate.

"Voodoo, he said, "I'm studying black magic, & we're in the heart of it, by the way get your own beer here, there's no bartender.

It was well past midnight when the manager finally stumbled in.

"How much for a room for the rest of the night?" I asked.

"150.oo U.S. He snapped.

"WHAT!!" We're the only ones here?" Your not gonna fill up tonight!!" After all this place was in the middle of nowhere.

"We have our rules!" said the weasely white man, & walked away.

"Nice guy, huh?" said the student.

We camped down river that night on the humid banks of the Luangwa river. Hundreds of hippos grunted in the black water & great splashing & groans kept me awake stretched on the roof of that truck all night. Horrifing noises & horrendous mosquitoes. It was to hot to be covered & I was being eaten alive every time I uncovered. Lying in a sticky sweat, my body still covered with gas & road dirt. Millions of stinging blood sucking insects droned on the other side of the drenched sheet. A wet, hot, smothering, hell of a jungle night. I woke next morning with eyes swollen shut from mosquito bites. My entire head was misshapen from the vicious bugs. I stunk like a refuge.

Mike & I returned to the lodge, to buy breakfast & a shower...at any cost. The student was again in the bar.

" Man, what happened to you??" He stared at my face.

"Bugs." I mumbled through swollen lips.

" I hope your on Malaria pills, its rampant around here!"

"Sure am." I said.

"Where's your mosquito net?" He asked.

'Baboons got it."

I purchased a 10.oo shower from rat-face, then dined on bangers & beans over looking the crocodile infested river.

"There are more people killed by crocs in Zambia than by cars." the kid was saying. "And we've also had a real problem with man-eating lions here lately."

"Man-eating lions?" I gagged on a banger.

"Yeah man, drug a woman right out of that bungalow 2 weeks ago, ate her right on the  lawn in front of the other guests. Quite a show!!"

"I slept on the roof of the car last night...' I was mumbling.

"WHAT??" said the student "Why if you don't get eaten for dinner, or contract Malaria or a hundred other fevers, it'll be a God-damn miracle!"

 

Driving back along the river to the parks gate, there appeared a scrape of cardboard nailed to a tree. HIPPO POOL it said. Now hippos were a dime a dozen in this neck of the woods but what the heck. I pulled off the dirt track & stepped from the Trooper. Like an apparition a withered old man, tattered rags hanging from his gaunt frame, ghosted from the jungle.

"I can guide you to the hippo pool, for a small tip." He whispered.

We fell in behind the ancient guide as he led us down a jungle shrouded path. The old man was muttering to himself, watching his feet as he shuffled along in front of us. After walking for 20 minutes, Mike suddenly stopped & grabbed my arm.

"Look...Hippo." He whispered. Sure enough, the path ahead led straight to a small clearing. In this opening was a small mud hole, in the small mud hole was a huge hippo. Mike & I stopped in our tracks. The hippo is one of Africas most deadly animals. They are extremely territorial, lightning fast, & terminally irate. Neithor of us had any intention of getting closer. The old man however was still muttering, still starring at his feet, still shuffling down the path, apparently not even noticing the 2 ton beast.

"You don't suppose that is a tame hippo?" I asked Mike in a horse whisper.

"I doubt it."

The withered guide had shuffled to the edge of the mud hole, we stood entranced, the old boy couldn't have been 6 feet away from this mammoth killer.

Suddenly the guides body jerked, he looked up, & froze. Then like a top he spun on his heel, his eyes were the size of Frisbees, his face the color of snow, his mouth agape with terror.  He exploded from his rotten sandals, & tore past us like a track star, sprinting into the jungle screaming "HIPPO!!! HIPPO!!! HIPPO!!  

"You don't suppose that is the first actual Hippo that has been in the Hippo Pool?" Asked Mike.

"From the looks of our guides reaction it could well be."

 Returning to the Trooper, seeing no sign of the old man, we continued on to the parks gate.

Luangwa Park has suffered terribly from poaching. The elephant population has been decimated by 90 % in the past 20 years. Over 100,000 elephants killed.  Killed by poachers that receive about $10.oo per elephant. An elephants great knowledge is passed from generation down, the older ones teaching the younger where the water holes are, where the food is, how to survive. Poachers kill the older ones for their larger tusks, leaving an entire generation of young elephants to wander confused & leaderless. These magnificent creatures are extremely family oriented, they communicate in rumbling decibels below a human ears hearing. They bury their dead, & if an elephant finds a human corpse, will bury it also. They cry with sadness, & smile when happy. They constantly touch each other, often holding trunks for reassurance. The amazing trunk is a mass of 100,000 muscles, it can tear a tree from the ground, or pluck a seed from an orange. An elephant can remember a particular water hole, or hiding place, or foul deed for 40 years. They will be poached to extinction in Zambia within the next 4 years. Due to corruption from top officialdom down there is no way to stop the greedy slaughter.

May their killers rot in the 'elephant graveyard'.

There is a bluff overlooking the Luangwa river. The languid muddy flow is t home to hundreds of hippos grunting & arguing in the morning sun. A swarm of perhaps 20 huge crocodiles tear at the rotting corpse of a hippo, its bloated body floating like some obscene blimp as the huge prehistoric lizards clamp onto the fetid meat & spin their bodies, tearing huge chunks from the rotted carcass. Other hippos watch warily, & nudge their young closer, as the 20 foot monsters glide ever closer.

The crocodile, like the shark, was designed perfectly 200 million years ago. There has been virtually no change in this ancient eating machine. A 'croc' generally kills its prey by dragging it under water, drowning it, then stuffing into an underwater cave until meat has become rotted enough to swallow.

They can go a year without eating, or they can eat every day. Crocs have an amazing ability to sink & rise in water without moving a muscle, or inhaling or exhaling. As they grow crocs will 'take on ballast' or consume rocks. The bigger the croc, the more rocks he'll eat, presumably so his huge back scales won't upset him, the rocks hold his belly down. A crocodile can run like a racehorse on land, they know no fear, & will attack anything.

 We spent the day driving through herds of zebra & Impala returning to the bluff that evening to camp & gaze on this river of crocs, the largest ones we had seen anywhere. It was that night I witnessed the most amazing thing I'd seen in Africa.

It was twilight, that magical time in Africa when the air gets velvety soft. The sky bursts into flaming reds. The earth turns deep purple. The hum of a million insects, the chatter of a thousand birds lulls a person into a meditative state. For a brief moment you feel a part of it all...you have a place in the whole great circle of energy, you are home.

Suddenly a raucous herd of elephant burst from the forest below our bluff. A younger bull, perhaps in his teens, lumbered ahead of the herd in his haste to reach the water. As he unrolled his trunk into a inky river, the water exploded in his face. A huge crocodile, 3 feet across its scaly back, had grabbed the elephants trunk & now thrashed its 16 foot body wildly trying to pull the 3 ton elephant off the bank. The young bull was terrified, his eyes rolled, his frantic bellows echoed across the Luangwa's banks. Now the glassy river was being sliced by the snouts of 50 crocodiles, aroused by the frantic commotion, their fine wakes creating an arrow of death toward the struggling elephant. The other elephants seemed confused, they fake charged the river, then stopped, swinging their massive heads in indecision. They touched the struggling bull, & bellowed in anger at the frothing croc.

It seemed then that the elephant suddenly realized what was in store for him in a matter of seconds with the arrival of a dozen other of these scaly monsters. He found his footing & with muscles bulging, his trunk stretched taught, he proceeded to back up that bank. Bellowing with pain & terror, the young bull slowly was dragging that 1500 lb lizard from the water. With jagged reptilian movements the croc flipped & twisted its great body but refused to release the trunk, its evil cold eyes locked on its ambitious dinner.

When the elephant had dragged this huge croc10 feet from the water, he stopped, then with calculated coldness, walked toward the crocodile, put one foot in the center of the reptiles back, & stood on it. 5000 pounds of pissed off pachyderm pressed down on that squirming monster & suddenly with a sickening tear the crocks sides burst & entrails exploded from the body in a slimy wave.

"AAARRRRUUUGGG!!" Yelled Mike & I from our cliff top perch.

The croc had released the mangled trunk now, its mouth wide in death gasps. The enraged elephant rocked back & forth, bellowing his rage, squashing the twitching reptile into oblivion. Darkness fell covering the horrifying scene in a cloak of blackness, but still the elephant screamed his rage & pounded the long dead crocodile.

In the morning not a trace of the crocodile was left, obviously drug away by his companions he had become dinner himself. Life in the food chain.  

 

It was decision time again, with the loss of our gas tank & half our gas supply, we were forced to start considering refueling. The park or lodge offered no petrol, we would be forced to return to Chipata along the same bone jarring, nerve shattering, 8 hour road, or....take a 'caravan route' or 'track' which was partly Sumpf & partly Maraissalant according to our map.

I asked the Park Ranger if he knew the road.

"Well, I wouldn't call it a road." He said.

"Could we get through?"

"Mabey.....if it doesn't rain....A guy got through that road a month ago....or was it two months ago? There's a tricky spot when it enters the river..."

"The road enters the river?"

"Yeah man, then you drive in the river for about 5 miles & the road comes out again on the left bank...or is it the right.?...coarse if it rains, you'll lose the car...& drown."

"Were does this 'track' come out, can you buy gas there?" We ask.

"It comes out in a refuge camp of 100,000 Mozambique's. Not a pretty place, but mabey you can buy gas there." He offers.

"OK, thanks." Mike & I turn to go..

"The road is 200 kilometers of deserted bush.There are many lions." He smiled.

I was driving that day, I wanted to take the 'caravan' route.

Mike was navigating, he wanted to take the route we'd come in on.

"What if we get half way down that road, cant get through & have to backtrack. We wont have gas to get anywhere then." Is what Mike said.

"We'll get through, it'll be an adventure!!" Brains have never been my strong suit. We flipped a coin, & unfortunately for both of us, I won.

I headed down the two tire tracks, that supposedly was the "caravan route.' Mike was steaming but said nothing. After two months in a car with someone you start to pick up on these things.

The track was fairly well worn as it wound through forests & fields. Hell, man this was no problem at all, gloating to myself.

Suddenly in a dense wood, a tree lay across the track. The work of elephants the road appeared blocked. Mikes silent steaming grew louder.

"Hey no worries, we'll just go around it." I beamed & drove into the bush around the downed tree where obvious tracks proved others had. On the other side of the downed tree, the road was gone. It simply faded into a dozen different car tracks going a dozen different directions. I followed the heaviest. It disappeared. Mike was silently screaming. I back tracked, followed another.

It too faded away. I had burned 20 miles of gas & we still had to return. Mike, although sitting quietly starring out of the window, was putting off the energy of an exploding volcano. I had to admit I was wrong, or kill us both out here. It was the toughest decision I ever made.

"ALLRIGHT I WAS WRONG!! I screamed in his face. Its the true mark of a man to be able to admit he's made a mistake, & take it with grace.

"YOU DON'T HAVE TO RUB IT IN SMARTASS!!" I wailed.

"I didn't say any thing." said Mike, it was true the SOB hadn't said anything...BUT I KNEW WHAT HE WAS THINKING!!

I returned to the corrugated hell & drove in silence for about 3 hours...or until we ran out of gas. The Trooper coasted to a stop in the middle of nowhere. If it hadn't been for my 40 mile mistake, we may have made it.

It was extremely uncomfortable in the silent cab.

"What if we cant get through & have to back-track"...Mike had said.

"One of us will have to go for gas." Said Mike.

"I'll go!" I volunteered, that's the kind of guy I am.

"I'll go!" Said Mike, then "Lets flip!"

"No!" I said.

"Yes!" He insisted,  flipped a coin, & lost the toss.

Mike didn't say a word, got out of car grabbed a Jerry can & walked on down the deserted road. Hitchhiking was out, we had seen no other cars on this road. I felt like a snakes belly, low. I felt like a rat. I was a worm....

Oh well, may as well be comfortable in my darkest hour. I pushed the Trooper of the road, built a campfire, pulled out the camp chairs, lit a cigar & plopped down to enjoy the sunset. Suddenly I wasn't alone.

From the surrounding darkened jungle, people were appearing. Vaporizing from the foliage. I had no idea how long they had been watching me. They approached the fire cautiously & stood in a circle around me on the edge of the fire light. Nobody said a word, just stared.

I smiled. They grinned shyly. I said hello. They grinned, & giggled shyly.

By the time the stars had come out there were 50 people standing around in the wide circle...starring at me. Sitting in the chair staring at the fire, I felt like E.T... Communication was out of the question, & trying to entertain them made me feel like a dancing bear. They stood, stared & whispered, I sat...starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. Standing up, the crowd fell back.

"I am going to bed!" I announced. The crowd grinned.

But first I had to relieve myself & this was far from private. I made peeing motions, this only aroused their interest. Finally out of sheer frustration I watered a tire in front of 50 disappointed natives. Then I climbed onto the roof into the sleeping bag & feigned sleep. A little before dawn the last person faded back into the jungle.

Mike returned at 9:00 in a pummeled Fiat. The driver had been so shocked to find a white man wandering with a gas can in the middle of nowhere, he had driven Mike all the way back to the Trooper. Mike thanked him, tipped him, gassed the truck, & were soon on our way.

"Where'd you spend the night?" I asked Mike.

"With the Great White Father." He said.

Excuse me?" I didn't like the sound of this...

"Some locals took me to an Italian missionary, called him The Great White Father. That's where I spent the night, then he sold me some gas this morning."

"Sounds like a real savior." I said.

"He charged me 6.00 U.S. per gallon." Mike grinned.

Returning to Chipata, after two days of body & mind torturing rattling, back at the same place. 200 miles of teeth chattering corrugation to get back where we had started. Such is travel in Africa.

We pulled into Chipatas gas station & proceeded to top off all Jerry cans & our one good tank. I was standing pumping the last of the 4.00 per gal petrol into our main tank when the makeshift rubber plug blew. Gas was pouring from the tank like a fire hose, it ran out of the station in a wide wave. It poured into the gutter & swept toward a bus stop of people....smoking cigarettes. It all swept before my eyes...S. Church...the guy that blew Chipata Zambia off the map. I started screaming at the bus crowd, making smoking gestures, blowing up gestures, gutter gestures. They had not a clue what was matter with me. I dove under the truck to try & stem the tide of almost $100.oo worth of gas. I was immediately soaked in the stuff, yelling at Mike for a hose clamp. It was 10 minutes before a 3 inch clamp could be found. Lying in a pool of gas, waiting for someone 3 blocks away to drop a cigarette in the gutter & turn this place into Kuwait.

Finally a clamp was located, the gasket was secured & I slithered from under the truck, eyes stinging, cloths soaked in oily gasoline, black from the stations greasy pavement. I felt like shit...

 Things got worse. From nowhere a flying insect the size of olive pit flew into my ear, & immediately proceeded to crawl towards the brain. I tore at my ear but the creature was out of sight squirming & clawing its way to the center of my head. I fell to my knees, pounding the side of my head with a fist. A small crowd was gathering. Here was the same white man that moments ago was jumping up & down screaming about smoking, now was on his knees beating on his own head screaming about bugs in his brain. No one wanted to get to close.

I had seen the movie Mountains Of The Moon & vividly recalled African explorer John Speeks unbearable agony when a beetle crawled into his brain. I was beginning to freak out.

The voracious insect had reach the inner ear throwing off my balance, & sounding like an earth mover in my head.

"DOCTOR!! MIKE!!!" DOCTOR!! BUG!! I was pleading, flopping on the cement like a beached mackeral.

Africa had again swatted me down. One minute your standing there happy as a clam, the next your in some life threatening struggle.

Mike pulled me to my feet & peered into the ear.

"Don't see anything." He said.

"That's cause its half way to my brain!" I gasped.

Having seen Mike actually touch me & not get attacked, two more men stepped from the crowd.

"We can show you the Doctor...Come!" Each taking an arm, as walking a straight line was virtually impossible with a bug playing the bongos on your inner ear.

I was led down a dirt alley, & into a paint peeled building, finally into a shabby office literally jammed with people. Horrifying infections & malfunctions, disorders of all types stod about..

The Doctor, a small dark Pakistani came into the room. He spotted me immediately. Finally a customer that could pay!! A WHITE MAN!! He scooted to my side & led me into his office.

As you probably know, Africa has a rampant aids epidemic, often times fueled by the medical profession itself. No blood is tested, disposable needles are rare. I explained my fear of this to the Doctor. He understood.

He poured warm salt water in my ear, tried to suck out the squirming insect with a turkey baster. Pounded on my head, prodded with probes. The bug was getting irate at the intrusions. Finally the Doctor went to a rusting cabinet & produced a brand new set of forceps. He proudly displayed them to me, still sealed in the makers plastic." Bery new!!" He said.

I lay down on the table, the doctor positioned himself above me for best leverage & with those gleaming new forceps, went in after that bug.

I may have suffered worse pain in my life, but for the next two minutes, could not remember when. My right leg shot out, kicking a bed pan from its stand. My eyes crossed, my ear roared, my body was twitching violently.

Finally a cloak of darkness spread over my eyes, I was mercifully blacking out.

"AH HA!!" Exclaimed the Doctor, & held a wriggling insect in front of my eyes.

"You are bery lucky sir, for it is only a moth, one of the few non poisonous bugs in Africa."

I paid him graciously & staggered from the office. My ear still hurts, two years later.

 Passing through the capital of Zambia, Lusaka, crowds of people still celebrating the election, a volatile time. We decide to head on, crossing plains devoid of animals, passing towns called Pemba ,Choma & Zimba.

Finally late one afternoon I see the smoke. Not really smoke but mist rising a quarter mile in the air above the flat African plane. Mist from Mosi-oa-tunya, The Smoke That Thunders, or Victoria Falls. The mist cloud alone can be seen for 50 miles every direction, from falls over a mile wide that drop 355 feet. The mist from the falls has virtually changed the climate for miles around, making it an oasis in the dry African bush.

The roar can be heard for miles, the power is awesome. You cannot witness Victoria Falls without being changed forever.

Vic Falls is also the border of Zimbabwe, one of the most beautiful countries in Africa. We cleared out of Zambia, went 100 yards cleared into Zimbabwe, & as the sun set into the Zambezi gorge crept across the rusting steel bridge that hangs 400 feet above the river & stretches 650 feet in a gravity deifying engineering marvel....considering it was built in 1904. The falls drop to oblivion on the right side as you cross, it is truly one of the most spectacular sites in Africa. We stopped in the center of the bridge leapt from the Trooper snapped a picture & leapt back in. The whole process took about 2 seconds. We had been told not to stop on the bridge. The bridge is the only link between these two countries divided by the Zambezi River. There is no love lost between the two, consequently the bridge is heavily guarded on both ends. If you stop, one side or the other assume you are trying to blow up the bridge. Cars & trucks are let over one at a time, under heavy scrutiny. You are instructed not to stop, for any reason. But we had just stopped for a second.

 On the Zimbabwe side we were greeted by a team of a dozen hard looking Special Rangers. They all had M16s leveled at us, they were not smiling.

"Welcoming committee." Murmured Mike as they stopped us.

"YOU WERE TOLD NOT TO STOP ON THE BRIDGE???" Barked a sergeant.

"Yes sir, but just for a second..."

"YOU WERE ONE SECOND FROM BEING SHOT." He was purple in the face. "YOU SHOULD BE TAKEN TO JAIL!!! YOU MAY BE TERRORISTS!!" He snapped.

If it hadn't been for the traffic building up we would probably still be there receiving a sound tongue lashing, but were finally released as stupid tourists.

 The small town of Victoria Falls is one of the most pleasant in Africa. It boasts a Whimpy Burger, travel agents, casinos, & the Vic Falls Hotel, a Victorian wonder left over from British colonial days. Under British rule Rhodesia was one of the richest countries in Africa. The 30 years of independent rule has turned the 'new' Zimbabwe into a virtual disaster. The whites that virtually ran & owned the country 30 years ago were given two suitcases & $200.oo to leave the country with.  300 years of family owned farms & business' were walked away from, & the new Zimbabwe lost all her pilots, managers, engineers, doctors, & anybody who knew how to run the country. Mines closed, roads went to hell, most elephants & virtually all rhinos were poached. With the killing of 4 Canadian tourists in the 70s tourism fell off. Today Zimbabwe is a travelers delight. It is not only one of the most beautiful countries, it is one of the cheapest, the Zim dollar worth practically nothing.

Mike & I went straight to the Vic Falls Hotel, & there in that Gucci crowd of foreigners enjoyed our first ice cubes in over 2 months. Then into a lavish buffet over 100 feet long, all for under 3 dollars. In were in heaven, we were gonna like this place.

 Spent easily a week in Vic Falls, cleaning ourselves, & the car, taking day trips into the local game preserve, & night trips to the Casinos.

 This preserve runs along the languid Zambezi above the falls. It is a beautiful piece of Africa with winding river through meadows of green & flowered jungles. Wildlife is abundant, there is little camping allowed & all vehicles are made to leave the park before sunset.

And so it was almost sunset when the baboon attacked the warthog.

We were about 5 miles from the entrance watching a family of 5 warthogs cross the road. Papa Mama & 5 ugly piglets scampered along, tails whipping the air like antennas. Suddenly from the bush comes a bull baboon, full run, making no noise. The highballing monkey steamrolls over a piglet sinking 4 inch canines in the pigs back. Baby pig went down screaming, the father pig spun & pursued the baboon. Another baboon tore in hitting another piglet, this time the sinking teeth held & the squealing youngster was carried into the bush. The mother warthog grunting in anxiety, took after the fleeing abductor. 4 piglets were left unattended, & in came the troop of baboons, falling on piglets like some demented demons. The screaming was blood-chilling as 3 of the 4 babies were carried off to be literally torn apart by the 90 lb apes. The wart hog parents returned in frantic haste to find one severely bitten piglet, sitting on his haunches, in a frozen state of shock.

In a mater of seconds the warthog family had been wiped out right before our eyes. The parents, whimpering in grief routed the remaining piglet with their snouts & gently coaxed him into the bush. There is nothing on earth uglier than a warthog yet we had just witnessed a display of bravery & grief that made those gruesome beasts the most noble lives on earth.

It was getting along twilight, time to race for the gate. We were bouncing along the river, down a dirt track through herds of hundreds of Impala, water buffalo, & giraffe. All headed to the river for an evening drink, & a joke. It all happens at the water in Africa.

Suddenly rounding a corner we came upon an amazing site. In the middle of the road, a small green rental car was being examined by a herd of Bull Elephants. The huge tuskers were lifting the front of the car, peering under it, slamming it down. They pounded on the roof, the hood, the trunk with their powerful trunks. I had heard it was not safe to drive green cars around elephants, they think them a haystack or something. Anyway here was the proof. The top of this tiny car came to the elephants knees, they totally surrounded the car preventing any escape, & escape was exactly what was on the occupants minds. An elderly blue haired couple were trapped in the car as it was getting smashed around them, they were waving through the back window at us to do something. Mike lay on the horn...it didn't work.

We drove at the elephants waving & screaming. A gigantic bull, tusks 5 feet long, spun on his heel & charged us. After a heart stopping backward race the bull gave up the chase & returned to the green rental. We did what we could, & took pictures, from a safe distance.

Just before dark the elephants tired of the investigation & allowed the rental & ourselves passage through & out of the park.

I had been to Vic Falls before with my father & brother, rafting the wild Zambezi below the falls. I had met & become friends with a young white Rhodesian couple that owned the huge Crocodile farm there. He had been a strapping fun loving white African, she a beautiful flaming red-head born in the African bush. I returned to the Croc Farm to look them up.

"De Bass is traveling around de world." said a grounds keeper.

"Is his wife around?" I asked.

"His wife die of the fever 6 month ago, dat why de bass travelin."

It was a shock, the girl had been as vibrant as an African sunrise when I had seen her last, I was greatly saddened for my friend.  Damn the fever.

We were staying in a camp ground a few miles up river from town. It was a fine clear morning when Mike took the Trooper & headed to town for a day of rafting on the wild Zambezi. I refused to go, not quite feeling up to par, I lay in the bungalow shaking & sweating, The Fever...I had it. My brain was burning up, I staggered to the front door, fell outside & blacked out.

.                                    PT 4  BOTSWANA

 

As for me, except for an occasional heart attack, I feel as young as ever.

                                                                                 Robert Benchley

 

Doctors are people who give you medicine until you die.

                                                                                 African saying.

 

"What is your name? " A huge black nurse was coming into focus.

"Where are you from?" She was asking.

I had no answer for her, I didn't know my name, I didn't know where I was from, & worst of all I didn't know where I was.

"Whh ...Whh..Where....is this?" My mouth felt like an Arabs armpit, my head was pounding, every bone in my body ached, I was freezing & sweating like a pig.

"You sir are in the Vic Falls Hospital. You were found face down in the bush by a fisherman. He ran two miles to the Azambesi Lodge & called an ambulance. Lucky he found you, in another hour you would have been dead."

"Dead??" I didn't know who I was but I knew dead didn't fit into my plans.

"Wh...Wh..Whats...the...matter?" I didn't know if I wanted to hear.

"You sir have a particularly violent case of Malaria."

"Malaria!" Malaria!" I repeated like a brain surgery victim.

"We must bring down the fever sir, it is almost 105."...She was saying when again the black curtain dropped.

I came to again naked, in a tub of freezing water, four black nurses held down my thrashing body & sponged the icy water over me. It was an unbearable  burning sensation on my highly sensitive skin. It was raw-nerved pain. I squirmed & squealed trying to break free from the black hands. I was week as a kitten & making no head way.

"We must break the fever!!" Smiled a nurse!

I hurt all over, like my parachute hadn't opened....again I blacked out.

I woke again in a tidy modern hospital room. The sheets were drenched in sweat. I swam up from a sea of pain & nausea to have Smilin Mike & a small Indian woman come into view. Mike leaned into vision.

"This is your doctor, ol buddy, Dr. Bagwan, she says your gonna be fine."

I didn't feel fine, I felt like a train wreck.

"No...dirty...needles....no ....blood." I mumbled. Why worry about Aids, when the Malaria will probably kill me...I passed out again.

For the next three days,(they told me later) I was carried from the bed to the freezing water every hour, trying to break the fever. My body was wracked in pain. I somehow had to escape that body or die. Horrifying Malarial dreams were consuming my very existence.

I would wake to find my naked body covered in crawling insects, my skin literally black with bugs of every description. I woke to find a huge mosquito sitting on my wrist, its 3 inch beak impaled my hand. I tore at the massive bloodsucker only to rip an IV needle from my hand. I would dream of dark

 jungle places, inhabited by strange creatures that defied imagination. I had to fight the images away before my brain could attempt to contemplate the hideous deformities.

There was one creature, that kept reappearing in my feverish brain. It seemed to be the head of a man, on the body of a baboon. It would skitter away to the far corners of my burning brain looking back over its hairy shoulder. Was it an animal, a man....for Gods sake was it me?? Some ancient gene that enabled me to be looking back at my farthest ancestor. Was it early Church...or was I losing my mind?"

By the 4 day I had given up, I would wake from a body thrashing nightmare of insanity to violent retching & diarrhea, all in the confines of the bed. Being to weak to move now I lay drenched in sweat, vomit, & excrement.

I wanted to die...to die would be blessed relief...peace at last. Death looked  a wonderful escape.

Finally the fever subsided, leaving me a vacant shell, a smoldering pile of exhausted parts. The fever had burned 30 lbs from my body & brain. I felt like a corpse.

I started to piece it together. I had probably contracted the disease on the banks of the Luangwa River that night on the Troopers roof. Although I had been taking Chloriquen, this strain of Malaria had been totally resistant to the drug. The drugs used by the hospital along with pure Quinine were so strong as to leave me with splitting headaches for a month, and a stomach ulcer. The cure itself had damn near killed me.

In another 4 days I was well enough to stagger from the hospital. I had been lucky. The Vic Falls hospital, brand new, was probably the finest medical facility in Southeast Africa. I had been found not 5 miles from their door.

The bill for saving my life was $27.oo U.S.  For 8 days, private room, private nurses, tests, drugs, doctors, ambulance...$27.oo.

I was alive!! What should have been joy at my new lease on life was only overshadowed by the fact that I still felt & looked like death warmed over.

Mike strapped me upright, & we departed Vic Falls, Ratso Riso & the Midnight Cowboy, heading south.

 In the west corner of Zimbabwe lies the vast & varied Wankie, (pronounced  

...'Wankie') National Park. This huge parcel of rolling hills, deep forests & dry plains represents the best of East Africa. The park charges a $4.oo U.S. entrance fee, compared to Tanzania's $120.oo. Spread across Wankie, at strategic water holes some of the most tasteful lodgings in Africa exist. The main lodge, built of native stone, boasts a stuffed bull elephants head over its bar fireplace. The massive tusks & trunk reach 10 feet into the room.

Baboons, warthogs & an assortment of huge birds mingle among the poolside guests, trying to steal an or-derve where possible. The rolling lawns stretch down to a muddy high action waterhole. In the late afternoon sporting guests are driven by rover to an underground bunker that affronts the waterhole. They are left with pitchers of gin & tonics, dainty sandwiches, & plenty of film to wait for nightfall. In the quiet, dark chambers a half dozen languages are being murmured as the sun sets & the nightly show begins. Herds of elephant, lumbering single file emerge from the forest & beeline for the water. A wary giraffe starts to spread its legs & reach its 18 foot height

down for a drink. He is most vulnerable to attack at this point with his front legs spread like a massive tri-pod.  It takes a half hour of false starts before his parched mouth finally reaches the water. At this point an amazing series of valves takes over in the giraffes neck, pushing the water upward, keeping the blood from rushing down the long neck. The giraffe, by the way, has the highest blood pressure of any living creature. The huge beast is always on its feet, as getting up from the ground is a lengthy process. It stands even to give birth, & consequently it is many the newborn giraffe that doesn't survive the fall. They are the most graceful of creatures, their height & fluid smooth

movements, seem to separate them from other earth bound animals.

From our bunker now we peer through the knees of a hundred Cape Buffalo, we are literally in the center of the herd, able to reach from the open viewing slots & touch the beasts if one dared. Impala & gazelle drink side by side, as a stately Sable Antelope paws the ground. His shiny black coat, body of a racehorse, & head of a unicorn makes the Sable almost mythical. A troop of baboons sits quietly picking lice from each other & gossiping about the days events. As darkness falls over the scene, the joyful bellows of splashing elephants not 30 feet away, gives one a humble fragile feeling.

The rover returns after dark & plucks the human hostages from the bunker.

A five course meal of exotic game meats awaits the guests.

Early next morning we depart the lodge & drive through mist shrouded forests of thorny Acacia trees. Its a weird scene as the fog swirls about ghosting herds of antelope, floating pairs of giraffe.

Suddenly a figure squats in the road ahead, the mists shroud the apparition as it scuttles to the side of the road.

"OH MY GOD!!" ITS HIM!!" My heart is suddenly pounding, my guts twist.

"Its a baboon!!...Isn't it?? Mike slams on the brakes.

"LOOK AT ITS FACE!!" This was the creature, of my Malarial dreams, this was the horrible distortion of man & beast, that had scuttled through my dark fevered nights at the Vic Falls Hospital! The thing lived!!

It was loping, bent over, its long arms nearly dragging the ground. At the edge of the forest it stopped...& looked back over its humped shoulder.

"JESUS CHRIST!! LOOK AT ITS FACE!!" It was the dream reincarnate, it was the face of a human. It stared at us for a blood-chilling second & disappeared

into the misty trees.

"DID YOU SEE IT!!" DID YOU SEE ITS FACE???" I was hysterical my heart & head pounding with blood.

"I don't know what I saw..." Mike was mumbling.

"IVE SEEN IT BEFORE!! IN MY DREAMS!!" I yelled at him.

"I don't know what I saw ...I was looking at me oddly...mabey it was just a deformed monkey..."

"OR MAN..." It would take the rest of the day to quiet my heart.

We took a tiny side track into the wild heart of Wankie Park. The road ended at a muddy waterhole surrounded by thick trunked sausage trees. This tree bears a fruit that distinctly resembles a huge salami. When ripe, its juices ferment, creating an intoxicating desert for fun loving elephants. The pachyderms love these tasty alcoholic fruits & spend many happy weeks smashed to the gills staggering about the sausage tree.

We made camp 500 yards from the stinking sinkhole so as to avoid being trampled by thirsty visitors. It all happens at the waterhole in Africa.

About an hour before sunset, my head pounding with the daily post-malarial headache, I limped to this quagmire, & with huge effort hoisted my sickly frame into the lower limbs of the sausage tree. I jammed myself in a broad fork, loaded the camera & waited. I need'nt wait long as suddenly from the bush stepped a dozen elephants. Like 6000 lb children they pushed, shoved & squealed at each other, throwing mud high into the air in playful frolic.

The gigantic beasts were 5 feet below me as I clung to the tree. Their long serpentine trunks testing the air about me. It was obvious they could smell me but their poor sight could not pick my skinny limbs from the trees limbs.

As the sun sank into the forest, a herd of 50 buffalo appeared grunting angrily at each other like grumpy old men, the elephants gave the temperamental bovines a wide birth as they jostled for water. Impala, & gazelle

appeared, then the inevitable baboons. A gang of teenage baboon hoodlums wrestled directly below my perch. Their hair pulling & head slapping was reaching Three Stooges proportions when one of them broke & scampered up my tree. I sat still as a rock as the young baboon came tearing up the tree, his head turned, eye on his comrades below. At the last second I jerked my body as the next baboons grasp would be my bare leg. The monkey caught the movement from the corner of his eye, his momentum had carried him to within inches of me. His mouth dropped in horror, his eyes bulged, as a terrified scream escaped his lips. He went right over backward drooping through space like a suicide victim, screaming hysterically.

The ape hit the ground running, at once startling the flighty Impalas. They leapt into the air as if electrocuted & vaulted into the bush. At the same time the buffalo stampeded, exploding from the mud hole like a bomb, & crashing past the confused elephants who wheeled about, ears flapping, trunks high, the were bellowing with terror in an effort to round up the young ones.

Within seconds the waterhole was empty. What had been a crowded playground of a hundred animals seconds before was as quiet as a graveyard now. The eruption of terror from the stampeding beasts was an awesome display of power & left me quivering with adrenaline.

The stampede had opened an excellent window of opportunity for my escape however, so with ungainly haste I scrambled from the tree & made my way in evening shadows back to camp.

"Sounded like all hell broke loose at the old waterhole, what'd you do, expose yourself? Asked Mike.

"Baboon got a close look at me...freaked out." I knew I was looking rough but this was humiliating.

"Speaking of baboons," Mike said,  "when you were in the hospital in Vic Falls I came upon a German guy in the park with his window smashed out..."

"So?"...

"So the guys got a brand new Mercedes Benz, he wants to drive it through the park but he doesn't want those pesky baboons jumping all over the hood, begging for food, scratching the paint...." Mike trailed off.

"So?"

"So, he buys this big black rubber snake, as every one knows baboons are terrified of snakes, & he puts the thing on his dashboard & drives through the park. Well the baboons leap on the car take one look at that snake & pass out from fear."...Mike stopped talking again...what was that stuff he was smoking anyway?

"SO??"

"So the guy makes it all the way through the park with no damage to his precious car. He stops at the main gate & goes inside to pay for the day, this huge black guard comes around the guard house, sees that snake on the dashboard, he picks up a large boulder & smashes it through the windshield in an effort to kill the snake.....that's when I got there, as the German was just emerging from the guard house....it was quite a scene."

I starred at him..."I'll bet it was..." It had been a pretty good story.

 We rented a stone bungalow in Wankie for a few days. A tastefully furnished home alone in the middle of Africas bush it cost about 3 dollars a day.

I lay on the porch, head pounding, skin crawling while Mike took afternoon 'Walking Safaris.' This is a kind of sport whereupon with an armed guard along you attempt to have a more personable experience with a herd of buffalo or a pride of lions than one would have from the safety of a car.

In my weakened condition a close encounter on foot with a pack of lions was not tripping my trigger of enthusiasm.

Mike finally admitted to me it had been hot as Hell & they hadn't seen anything.

Funny thing, the animals have a distinct fear of man, anyone traveling on foot will rarely have a close encounter with any beast. But in a vehicle people can drive literally into the center of a herd. Step from the car however & an explosion of terror, or a mass charge, the likes of which to stop your heart will occur.

Finally at a small outpost called Pandamatenga we departed Wankie park & beautiful Zimbabwe as well.

With the usual display of armed authority, we were admitted to Botswana.

This country is also a 'democracy', however Botswana has managed to become a bit wealthier than her neighbors. In other words, you can buy things here. Things that come in wrappers, things that come in cans. The first thing you notice about Botswana is the trash. The rest of Africa has not a spot of litter, cause there's nothing to buy & there's no money to buy it with.

So welcome Botswana to the capitalistic world & all its trash.

Botswana is home to the vast Kalahari desert, it is 90% desert with the one exception called the Okavango Delta. This is a huge swamp of fresh flowing water creating a lush vibrant, world in the heart of a burning desert.

We would attempt to reach Maun, the gateway to this Eden, via the Chobe National Park & a 200 mile stretch of 'Salzsumpf' track across Botswana's sand blown, parched interior.

The Kalahari is home to the Bushmen. Small brown people who speak in clicks & can live on drops of water a day. They do not believe in personal wealth & consequently share everything. They are a happy, hardy group of which only a few thousand still lead the nomadic life, the rest having been shot off for 'sport' over the years.

We entered Chobe Park in the afternoon at a price tag of $50.oo U.S. per person per day. They were out of maps of the park...as usual you were on your on once you entered, no maps no signs to guide you across a park the size of Maine.

We camped that night on the shores of the Chobe River, a clear life giving stream in the surrounding bleakness.

I dozed off peacefully under a clear African Sky, the Southern cross hung above my head as I stretched on the roof rack.

Suddenly I jolted awake. Something was wrong....a cloud layer had covered those icy stars & the night was still & black. Then I heard it...breathing...a low rumble from the throat of a huge beast, & not yards away in the darkness.

"MIKE!!" I banged on the roof, "MIKE!! FOR GODS SAKE OPEN THE WINDOW!!!"

"We're surrounded by lions!!" I hissed.

I had a healthy respect for lions, especially Chobe lions. My father & I had camped in this park a few years before. We had noticed a lone lioness. She was panting, ribs jutting from her sagging coat she seemed unusually bold about people. We slept well secured in tents as she prowled the camp that night.

We heard later a German Youth Group had camped in the same spot 2 nights later. The lioness had drug a 17 year old girl from her tent, carried her to a small island in the Chobe & proceeded to kill her slowly. The rest of the group was unable to frighten the beast away from the girl, whose horrifying screams went on for a half an hour until the lion broke her neck.

It was 2 days before the Park Rangers arrived to dispatch the lioness who was still feasting on the girls body.

Mike slid the window open & quick as a rat I scurried over the side & into the Troopers bunk.

"Lions"...I was panting, "Everywhere!!"

"I don't see any lions." Said Mike scanning the bush with his flashlight. He looked back at me warily. "Stay on your own side!" He warned.

  

It was the next morning when we were attacked by the blue-balled monkeys. I had been loading the car, when I saw them coming. Like a L.A. street gang they came sauntering across the meadow. Pushing & shoving each other they were squealing oaths and slapping each others heads. They were bent on trouble as the headed straight for the Trooper.

"MIKE!!" BLUE-BALLED MONKEYS!! I bawled at my partner who was washing dishes at the river. They were actually Vervet Monkeys, small brown mischievous devils that happen to sport a most iridescent blue genitalia.

 At times it is all you can see of the dull creature as he swings through the trees. It is an affliction one would not like to bring home to ones girlfriend.

The monkeys came on, they went straight for the campfire & breakfast, I tore after them as they carried off the coffee & bread, grill, & everything else they could find. It had been a diversionary trick. The rest of the horde fell on the Trooper with a Christmas shoppers vigor. The spiteful apes were passing cameras & clothing out the windows, throwing books & canned food

helter skelter. I raced back to the Trooper & started pounding on the windows. Monkeys screamed back at me from the front seat, biting cassettes in half. I opened the side door & went in after them. Screaming like 9 year olds at a slumber party the apes tore from the rear door spreading our belongings across the meadow as the ran laughing hysterically into the bush.

In less than a minute our camp had been totally wrecked. It looked like a, explosion in a Chinese laundry. Everything we owned was spread for hundreds of yards in every direction."

"WHAT THE HELL??" Exclaimed the returning Mike.

"Blue-balled monkeys." I told him.

.  

 I recalled another time in Chobe with my father. We had set up a base camp

& for a number of days hiked & drove around the surrounding area.

We returned one day to find the camp inhabited by baboons. One member of our group, an ornithologist from Australia had made a bad mistake. He had forgotten to zip up his tent. A troop of baboons had immediately spotted the opening & had spent the morning destroying the mans possessions. They had carefully removed every roll of film the good doctor had taken over the last 6 months in Africa. They had bitten the canisters open & carefully strung the exposed film about the tree limbs. It looked like a fraternity prank. His books cameras & clothing lay scattered about the camp. One ape scampered about with a cookie jar jammed on his hand. Another had a mouthful of letters home, another was carefully tearing the doctors notebook apart, eating the pages. It was a heartbreaking nightmare.

The ornithologist let out a yelp & ran for his tent. He threw the flap aside & ran inside. All hell broke loose.

Apparently there was a baboon still in the tent, when the man came yelping through the front door, the 90 lb ape sought escape out the back. The highballing baboon hit the back wall going nine-o & down came the tent.

Now trapped in that agitated pile of canvas was the good doctor, & an hysterical monkey. Great cursing & howling insued as the bundle of material leapt & jerked about the camp.

"HOLD UP THE BLOODY DOOR!!!" Henny the guide screamed at the rest of us.

We fell upon the bounding tent, grasp the front flaps & held them wide. Out came the baboon, going like a dragster that ape crossed the camp in a mili-second & was gone. The good doctor had not fared as well. He looked as if he had fallen on a fragmentation grenade. His clothing hung in shreds, he was covered in scratches. We immediately pulled up camp & drove the good

doctor to the closest clinic, 10 hours away. He survived the infections...like I said, he was an Australian.

 

At the west side of Chobe Park we blew past the guard post as 4 armed rangers slept on the porch. Their own rover, a rusted hulk, sat on blocks alongside the shack. There was nothing for 100 miles any direction, how they got there, what they ate, what they did was beyond me. They obviously had not seen a car in days, if not weeks & slept right through our passing.

"I wonder if we were supposed to stop & pay our exit fee?" I said.

"Naw, besides how they gonna catch us, did you see that rover?" Mike grinned.

We left the nebulous park boundaries & headed south on a road that had steadily disappeared until it had become nothing more that two windblown tire tracks in the sand. The country side had taken on an ugly side. The earth had turned to deep, scorching, blowing sand, with the occasional dead tree, or thorn bush standing black & ominous against a blinding horizon.

I topped a small hill & there before me was the horror of horrors....a fork.

Our map showed a dotted line across this section of the northern Kalahari.

One dotted line, not two, no fork. The map said it was in 'Paludesalato' condition. I was too weak to fight, but I was driving, & had a strong urge to go right. I wasn't sure why.

Mike, on the other hand, who seemed to be growing stronger under Africas harshness, had a strong pull to the left...naturally.

Mike felt sorry for me, he could have snapped me like a pretzel, but chose to flip a coin instead.

I won.

Down the right fork we went & in no time at all were in grave danger. The road obviously an old caravan route had been warn 4 feet down into the desert. The sloping sides rose abruptly in shifting blowing sand. It would be impossible to turn around. The single track at the bottom of this gully was 8 inches deep in soft sand, the Trooper was straining to push through it even though I had engaged four wheel drive at the fork. I had the truck in low range, the engine screaming, threatening to overheat at any moment.

"150 MILES OF THIS??" I screamed over the engine.

"YOU WANTED TO GO RIGHT!!" Screamed Mike, although his mouth never actually moved.

We roared around a bend & our hearts seized. There across the road lay a huge tree. One of the few trees in the entire country had fallen across the road. Or had been toppled by elephants, either way there was no way around it, yet I couldn't stop, the drifting sand would swallow us, we'd never get moving again, I would have to keep the forward momentum.

With both of us & the engine screaming, seconds before impact with the tree, I pulled the wheel hard to the left & attempted to scale the bank & steer around the massive tree.

It didn't work.

The Trooper hit that bank of soft sand & stopped like we'd hit a brick wall.

The engine died, it was totally silent, but for Mikes tight shut mouth screaming...

WE SHOULD HAVE GONE LEFT YOU IDIOT!!

My head was pounding out post malaria booms. It felt like my skull would surly split with the pressure. My heart was going like a jackhammer with the rush of almost killing us....but wait a minute....I probably had killed us.

We were 50 miles from the police outpost, which was 100 miles from anywhere. That 50 miles was through deep sand, shadeless, lion infested, God forsaken, 120 degree desert. It was obvious no one had been down this road for at least a month, the police had probably not even seen us pass, & if they had, they certainly didn't have a vehicle to rescue us. In Africa there is no 'rescue' service, no tow trucks, no phone.

I opened the door & collapsed like a Hong Kong suitcase into the baking sand

There was no escape from the blazing sun, no shade, not even under the truck...as the truck was sitting on her belly, tires hanging useless in the soft sand.

"Oh Boy!" I was muttering, a spot of drool on my lip. I had killed us...

Mike was surveying the situation, finally he spoke.

"We'll have to unload everything, let some air out of the tires & try to get back on top of the sand." He said.

"Right!" I mumbled...who was I to argue? I got shakily to my feet, reached up for a Jerry can, my head exploded & the world went black.

I woke some time later, Mike had dragged me like a crash test dummy to the fallen tree, He had propped me up & wrapped a soaked towel about my head. I opened my eyes slowly to the blinding sunlight. A bolt of pain like a mules kick hit my brain. I looked about in a fever-burned clarity. I could see a line of approaching army ants, I could see every leg on every ant for 50 feet. There were black beetles the size of tennis balls creeping like tanks across the burning sand. There were dead blackened trees, like skeletons against the shimmering background.

And there was Mike, wet towel turban-like wrapping his head, drenched in sweat, digging at the sand below the Trooper.

"Mike!" I croaked..

He came over with the water jug & soaked my head gear.

"If you cant get the truck out...." I gasped "And have to walk out..."

"Yeah?"

"Just... leave... me." I gasped, hell, I was a goner anyway...

"OK!" Mike said, got up & walked back to the truck.

 

I steadily improved after that, & was soon able to stand weaving & groaning

with exertion. We pulled the plywood bunks out to be used as sand bridges. A trick Jacki had taught us, it worked like a charm until the wheels left the plywood, again sinking out of sight in the sand. Were we gonna go 50 miles 6 feet at a time? I thought not...mainly because we were going to run out of water in a day at this rate.

By nightfall we had reversed about 100 feet of the 50 miles we needed.

We made camp & struggled all our gear the 100 feet & loaded it back up.

I collapsed in the sand...we were dead meat. As it got dark we counted our options. We had four gallons of water left, having gone through 10 that day.

Someone would need it to walk out, if it came to that, but the prospect of walking through 3 days & nights of lion country with a lipstick sized mace, was not appealing to either of us. I was to weak to walk 50 feet much less 50 miles. From sheer exhaustion we dozed that night, dreams of monkey-men scuttling through my brain.

We started early next morn but by noon had only managed another 100 feet.

There was 1 gallon of water left. It was looking bleak indeed.

We had just gotten the Trooper back up on the top layer of sand, we had just finished loading the gear for the 5th time that day. I collapsed in the sand, that was it, I knew I didn't have the strength to dig the car out one more time. I lay on my back staring at the sky.....staring at the sky?? Where was the sun. It had gotten dark, the merciless sun obscured by clouds. Suddenly the heavens opened & it started to rain! I say heavens as this rain was truly heaven sent. It hadn't rained but inches in 4 years in Botswana...& this was the dry season. Within minutes the thin top layer of wet sand set up like cement. A half inch thick fragile crust!

"QUICK!!!" Mike was screaming, "IN THE CAR!!"

I dove into the front seat as Mike eased out the clutch....it was holding, the Trooper was riding on top of the dampened sand. It was a frigging miracle.

Mike slowly increased the speed until the engine screamed at 20 mph in reverse. We had gone perhaps 5 miles in this fashion when Smilin Mike saw his chance. He jerked the wheel right & shot up the sandy bank, without missing a beat he slammed the truck into 2nd & we slid around doing 20 miles an hour forward.

A great rebel yell escaped our lungs....we had made it...we were alive!!!

Suddenly, as quick as it had started, the rain quit.

It had been nothing short of a miracle.

We tore back out of that wasteland our hearts soaring with a new lease.

As we again approached the police station it was obvious they had heard us coming. The four cops stood abreast, machine guns leveled at the Trooper.

We stopped in a cloud of dust, the soldiers came around to the windows, guns leveled at our faces.

"YOUR IN A LOT OF TROUBLE!!" Barked a sergeant.

"How's that sir?" This guy didn't know trouble, we had almost died...

"YOU ARE NOT WEARING YOU SEAT BELTS!!" He yelled.

Mike & I looked at each other, then from deep down inside a laugh started. A laugh of relief for living this long, a howl of desperation for this ridiculous bureaucracy, a scream for the joy of Africa!! We had done it by God!! It didn't matter if these clowns killed us for no seat belt. We were both suddenly hit with the fact we had done it! We had on a whim, left the comfort of Colorado & flat driven across Africa. We were still a thousand miles from our goal but that didn't seem to matter now. We screamed till the tears rolled down our faces. We were doing it by God!!

The sergeant was irate by this time, he jerked the door open & demanded we follow him to the shack were we would be arrested.

We stood in front of a green metal desk, while the fuming sergeant thumbed through Botswana's Book Of Rules.

"AH HA!! RIGHT THERE!!" He pointed at a page. "Seat Belts must be worn in Botswana, AH HA!!"

Mike & I leaned forward to see the law.

WHAM! He slammed the book. "YOU ARE A HAZARD TO EVERY ONE ON THE ROAD!! He ranted.

Mike & I looked at each other, we hadn't seen another car in a week.

"YOU WILL PAY 1000 Pula for this offense, or go to jail!"

"I see you have a tape player, sir!" said Mike "Perhaps you would like a tape from America, perhaps the Eagles?"

"The Eagles??" A murmur went through the station. "OK,.....BUT NEVER LET THIS HAPPEN AGAIN!!"

Mike had just traded a Eagles tape for 300.oo US. or life in a Botswana prison. We piled into the Trooper, the soldiers slapping our backs, thanking us for the tape.

"It was nothing men, really!" We drove off.

"It says here, there is a road, or a 'Pfad oder Karawanenweg' across this 200 mile sliver of Namibia called the Caprivi Strip." I read from the map.

"What do we know about Namibia?" Asked Smilin Mike.

"Nothing...we know nothing." I answered him.

"Then we shall go!"

We backtracked through Chobe till we came to a track leading to the north entrance, & Namibia. It seemed the only way to get south was to go north.

Clearing out of the park & Botswana we drove into a no-mans land of mine fields & barbed wire separating the two countries.

UNEXPLODED MINES DO NOT LEAVE CAR! The signs said. After many of these border wars herds of Elephant are herded across mine fields to 'clear them.'

We enter Namibia, or before 1990, German South-West Africa, annexed to South Africa. It is the size of Texas & Oklahoma combined, but contains a little over a million people. It is the least populated per sq. mile of any country on earth. The official language is Afrikaans, meaning across this country we navigate from signs reading Swakopmund, Otjiwarongo, & Etoshawildtuin. There are white people here...but very strange white people, they seem to be stuck in some 1950s time warp, sporting greased duck-tail hairdos, gold chains, nylon shirts unbuttoned to the navel. The women sport died blond bee-hive hairdos & skin tight pedal-pushers.

"I saw this in a Star Trek episode!" mumbled Mike as we entered our first Namibian bar.

 There was a L shaped pool table, with 6 James Dean look alikes at the bar.

Something that looked like Annette Funachelow chewed her finger-nails.

An Afrikaans heavy metal band screeched from the juke-box. The star wars bar. The place went dead silent, but for 'music'. We made our way to the bar & ordered a beer & a water, ( I unfortunately was done drinking with my new stomach ulcer.)

We were ignored!! IGNORED!! Mike & I looked at each other, "IGNORED IN A WHITE MANS BAR!!! After being treated like royalty by every black man we had met in the last 3 months, we were now being IGNORED by the first white men we encountered.

"WE SPEAK AFRIKAANS HERE!!" A mountain of a red-faced farmer stood up.

He came striding across the bar knocking chairs & tables aside....

"Go ahead Church, speak a little Afrikaans now..." whispered Mike.

"Ya see, we don't speak Afrikaans where we're from." I squeaked to the stinking Mack truck bearing down on us.

"WHERE'S THAT??"

This is always a tricky question in a new country. Believe it or not, not all people like us Americans.....I ventured a go at it. "America."

A hush fell over the bar...."Amerika!" was being whispered about the room.

"AMERIKA!!" Exploded the mammoth farmer "I LUFF AMERIKA!!"

He grabbed us both under each arm, as one might carry  weaner pigs, & started dancing about the room.

"I VANT TO BE A DRUCK DRIVER IN AMERIKA!!" He was singing. Then he plopped us onto bar stools & shouted at the bartender:
"I VANT TO BUY AMERIKAN FRIENDS T-BONE STEAKS, & BEST ROOM IN HOTEL!!"

"Oh no, no,no, no." Mike & I were saying when the bartender leaned over & whispered:

"Please, just say yes.."

"Why?"

"Because he will kill you if you don't."

Smilin Mike & I looked at each other," I don't suppose a T-Bone would hurt us.

 

The road down the Caprivi Strip was  wide & straight as a runway, &  corrugated as a tin roof. We sped along, the Trooper simulating a paint shaking machine.

We passed the northern end of the Okavango Delta, thousands of acres under 10 feet of crystal clear flowing water. The rising & falling water traps animals of every species on wooded islands throughout the delta. These islands can be visited by panga, or canoe, polled through the marshes by local fishermen. It was a trip I had taken with my father & brother years earlier. I was telling Mike about a night there...

"Well, we had been in the Kalahari for about 2 weeks by then," I was exagerating,"when we stumbled into Maun on the south shore of the Okavano.

There on the jungle covered banks of the swamp perched a free form bamboo structure called Sir Leonard's Place. We stumbled in, all dry of mouth & caked with dust, to be greeted by an older ram-rod straight, proper English gentleman by the name of Sir Leonard...Naturally.

His classic nose pointed upward as he stared down over his starched white

mustache, at our pitiful condition.

"My dear boys, it would appear you lads need a good screw.!"

My father, brother & myself stared at the Englishman, slowly nodding our heads.

"Then come this way, Lads...hurry along now!" scolded Leonard.

I mean we're in the middle of an African swamp, & this guy just stepped out of Buckingham palace! I was thinking, following him to a wide verandah over looking the grassy swamp. A pretty black girl stood behind the bamboo bar, smiling at us.

"Naomi!" Barked Sir Leonard, "Screw these Lads!"

We three Church's froze as our brains raced to catch up...Naomi spun on her bare heel, reached onto a shelf, & produced a bottle...SCREW was handwritten on the label.

"Make it myself!" smiled sir Leonard as Naomi gave us each a little screw.

We toasted & tossed the sweet liqueur down.

"Best screw we ever had!" Chorused the Church's, "Now we're screwed!" More Screws!!" Long into the night as the hippos complained in the inky black swamp below our feet.

It was quite late when my father retired, & brother Tom & I took a walk.

We were screwed up...needed to walk it of.

Down river, we came to a village, the folk engaged in a most fervent dance, the drums in a feverish pitch. Tom & I stumbled over for a look.

Suddenly, the drums quit, the dancers stopped...everyone starred at the two white men. It was totally still as 200 set of eyes fixed on us.

"What's wrong with this picture....Tom whispered.

I wasn't sure either but it didn't look healthy.

It was then that my brother got a burr in his Birkenstock. He picked up one leg & holding the offending sandal in his hands was hopping one legged about the sand. The villagers stared in awe...then one of the dancers picked up his foot & started hoping, then another & another. Then the drums started up & the entire village was holding one foot hopping about hysterically.

At that point my brother tripped & pitched over into the sand, the entire village followed suit, rolling with laughter.

We danced till dawn in that dusty village...a wild, screwy night."

 "That was some story." said Smilin Mike.

"True too." I said.

The passenger side door just fell off, dragging in the gravel, hopelessly twisting the hinge. We wire it shut & continue. Outside of a town called Runda the battery falls out. We limp into a garage.

It is 120 degrees in the shade.

Five African mechanics stand starring at the problem...its to hot to move...no one moves...then ever so slowly one will tighten a screw, another a spot of weld. Finally the Trooper is on the road again & we head toward the Pacific on a road across the heart of Namibia's desert, one of the driest in the world, in the middle of summer. The road is described by a gas station attendant as a 'very lonely road'. It is described on our map as Salzwuste.

Two days later we are floating across a huge mirage, it is impossible to tell where the shimmering horizon meets the glaring sky. It is as if we are on a liquid planet of gasses, floating like a spaceship hour after hour. There are no reference points, no mountains, no plants, only sand & rock as far as the eye can see. It is the harshest landscape on earth, alien in its bleakness.

It is also about 130 degrees, the Trooper rattles along within 5 degrees of over heating. The car has developed a nerve racking little habit of dying for no apparent reason. Just flat dies, then catches again giving our hearts a jump-start. We believe because of the intense heat the gas is simply vaporizing...or something like that. If the car quit we would by quick-fried.

We have passed no other cars in two days, it is indeed a lonely road.

From time to time Mike & I look at each other & scream "NAMIBIA!" as if to wake from this surreal dream of floating through reflections & heat.

Finally on the second afternoon the misty blue Pacific Ocean stretches before

us. Freezing waves crash into a barren coastline as we sputter into the "resort' town of Swakopmund. A couple of imported palms sway over German beer stubes & Alpine Architecture. Its a 130 degrees In the driest desert in Africa & your dining on Schnitzel & Strudel listening to an Alps polka. I couldn't make the adjustment somehow & was glad to be gone from

Swakopmund a few days later.

I suppose we had gained a bit of confidence on the northern crossing of this desert so we now opted for a little traveled track across the southern heart of the Great Namib Desert.

In the middle of nowhere we came upon an ancient road grader, pulling a small house trailer, which was pulling a trailer loaded with fuel & tools, which was pulling a generator for welding. The thing looked like it could last 100 years out here & from the looks of the driver, had. It was the only vehicle we had seen on this road.

The land had changed from broiling flat salt pans to baking valleys of black rock. There were great windblown cliffs now, & red shifting sand dunes. Eerie shrieks & moans from lone desert winds floated from the canyons. It was if we were being watched. But certainly not by something alive. Not a blade of grass, not a bird, not an animal in this arid moonscape greets us.

In the center of this hellish & beautiful desert we came upon the town of Solitaire. If the word 'town' doesn't describe one building, then 'Solitaire' certainly describes the setting. There are few places on earth as remote as Solitaire Namibia. It is on a planet of its own.

 In Solitaires only building, a kind of gas-pump store, sat Solitaires only inhabitant. A dried up weasel-faced white man. Solitary man.

We asked for some gas. Solitary man, left his seat & slunk toward the door, not saying a word, & keeping a wary eye on us.

"How much farther to Warmbat? To the Fish River Canyon? To Helmeringhausen?" We fired questions at the Solitary man, as a bead of sweat broke out on his lip. Suddenly a suck sound & Solitaire ran out of gas.

"WHAT!! Your out of gas??"

Solitary man mumbled something hung up the hose & crept back to his store.

Mike & I followed...."Can we get gas in Witwater?? Is there water in Witwater...We entered the dark store..."Hey how much for that candy bar?? Got any fruit juice?? What is that thing?? Been out here long??

Solitary man was backed up against the wall, his hands were shaking, sweat trickled down his forehead, his eyes looked like a rabbit in the headlights.

Suddenly, emitting a tiny squeak, he broke & ran for the front door streaking past us in an odiferous blur.

"Mabey we're pushing him a little fast?" I asked Mike.

"I don't think he's working well under social pressure." agreed my partner.

We stepped out into the sunlight, Solitary man was nowhere to be seen.

Then quick as a rat, he exploded from behind the Trooper, shot past us & back into the store. The front door slammed, & a series of bolts slid to place.

"Think we wore out our welcome?" Asked Mike.

We left him money for the gas, & drove out of Solitaire, leaving the sole inhabitant trembling in a dark corner. The Solitary Man.

"The guys going to have to be a bit more aggressive if he's ever going to make it in sales..." We were saying...

We passed the Fish River Canyon, bigger than the Grand Canyon, but all facilities closed to the public due to heat. We passed the huge Kimberly Diamond Mines, thousands of acres fenced & closed to the public also.

Finally the border of South Africa, our final destination.

We are actually welcomed by customs, breezed through the paperwork, & told to have a 'real good time' in their country. We couldn't believe it, after hearing horror stories of the South African bureaucracy.

Real pavement greets us, a smooth highway stretches before. Mike floors the Trooper & eases up to 90 mph. Suddenly, the engine swallows a valve, the lifter is ticking frantically. Mike eases off the throttle &, KABOOM!!

The resulting backfire separates the muffler from the exhaust system. The Trooper sounds like a John Deere tractor, & belches a cloud of blue smoke.

It matters not.

After 3 & a half months in car together, we have learned to curb our criticism. Smilin Mike has proven to be a marvel at travel. The rougher it gets, the better he likes it. He has saved my life literally at least twice, & my spirit a dozen times. We are changed men. Things like monetary possessions mean little in the grand scope of things....besides, it was his car.

We sputter south on highways that would shame California.

A day north of Cape town we decide to detour through South Africas famous wine country. After all, it has been a long trip, perhaps a nice glass of Chardonnay might help us unwind.  

Africa has taken on yet another face as we cough & sputter up mountain passes that could be the Alps. Gleaming white Dutch & German villages nestled in valleys of tidy vineyards transport our desert weary eyes to Eden.

We stop by Dutch Dorpies, towns, for some waterblommetjiebredie, stew, then climb through a thin mountain pass to behold the valley of Shangra-La.

Actually called Franschhoek this lush high valley is lined in rows of grapes, dotted with magnificent stone wineries. A postcard.

At a grand stone arch labeled LE BRI VINEYARDS, we turned the Trooper down the cobblestone drive.

We were not the kind of people you'd want to have visit, as the filthy Trooper backfired & belched clouds of smoke down the drive. Both front wheels leaned in at impossible angles, the doors were wired shut. With a final explosion the Trooper died & we scrambled from the windows.

Neither Mike nor myself had enjoyed a proper bath for months. Our hair felt like dried spaghetti. We were zipper thin, our skin the color of jerky.

Both of us sported beards, bead & teeth necklace. copper bracelets, filthy headbands, & wretched khaki shorts. Flies buzzed around us.

A proper looking gentleman with matching tweed jacket & tam emerged.

"At's a fine lookin Balkie (Truck) ye lads got der!" An Kenyan plates no doubt? Ye drove from Kenya? Smashing!! No trouble from the bloody wogs?? Smashing, "Bloody Dicey I'll wager!!" Splendid!!"

"We drove all that way for a glass of your Chardonnay!" Smiled Mike.

"Friggen Yanks, rollin over the Koppies, (hills) to visit me, why you young lads should be over in the dorpies jowling for stuckeys, (chasing girls).

"Come my boys let us sample some witblits,(brandy), or mabey a mampoers."

He led us into the wineries cool dark interior. A table 20 feet long held a dozen opened bottles.

"Bat urine!" He exclaimed, & swept them aside going to a 12 foot high shelf.

"Ears a little 89 Blanc de Blanc, Young but not immature!! He poured us all a brimming glass."I'm not a heavy drinker"He was saying"I am a heavy taster!

Next he produced a 88 Pinot Noir, (Saucy but not overbearing).

"We used to ave a bit-o-trouble with the elephants comin or de pass abot harvest time. Those big boys love those fermented grapes you know, next thing you got 200 drunken bloody elephants wreckin the valley."

He stopped long enough to pour a Blanc Fume that started slow, but lightened up with each sip until it was virtually hysterical with flavor.

"So we installed a bleedin canon in the mountain pass. Hired a Frenchman to fire it a the trespassing pachyderms. We knew the Frog would never really hurt any of em, just scare em. So every harvest now son of frogy still goes up there to man the canon...I don't believe he's actually ever seen an elephant!"

The story had been good but the Blanc Fume was running rampant & had to be subdued with a very serious Cabernet Sauvignon.

"Ve don't 'make' wine, ve 'grow' it. We mold nature to create, for instance smell the bouquet of this 88 Shiraz. Why you can smell the flowers."

He was right this bodacious, full-bodied, voluptuous, but not low in character wine was a flirtatious break from the somber Cabernet.

I chose a precocious little Chardonnay to accompany me to Colorado.

"The wine will be very agitated from the long journey, you will have to let it rest for at least 3 weeks." He winked.

I assured this guru of the grape, that I would give it a good home.

"Splendid!!" He said "Smashing!!"

With heavy heart, & light head we depart for Cape Town. Final destination. 

 Cape Town is indeed the most beautiful city in the world, from table mountain, with its daily cloud layer dubbed 'the table cloth', to its white sand beaches it is the San Francisco of Africa.

Mike & I weary from the road, rent an apt overlooking a small bay & run an ad for the Trooper. It is easily sold bringing 1000.oo less than we paid for it, 10,000 miles earlier. It has served us well.

We spend our days restoring body & soul on Cape Towns top-less beaches & sidewalk cafes. A fitting end to a thrilling journey.

Deciding it only proper to complete the odyssey, our last day in Africa is spent on a side trip to the tip itself. The Cape Of Good Hope.

We were standing on the edge of Africa herself, icy waves from the roaring 40s tearing at the cliffs 1000 feet below. An 80 mph wind from Antarctica screaming up the cliff. Smiling Mike, an accomplished parachuter is mumbling something about missing his air. Suddenly he leaps the gaurd rail, crawls to the edge of the shrieking cliff, & leans out into the up-draft. People from a dozen countries are yelping in horror.

"ALLRIGHT PILERT!! I screamed over the wind."THIS IS THE LAST TIME I GO ANYWHERE WITH YOU!!"

                                                    THE END